


Fading Illusions

by GammilyIsMe



Series: Illusions 'Verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Abused Harry, Abusive Dursley Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Because They Love Each Other, Bullying, Child Abuse, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Harry Whump, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, The Golden Trio, Whump, like it may go out but BAM it'll be back, like very slow burn, more tags will be added, no magic, or at least they will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammilyIsMe/pseuds/GammilyIsMe
Summary: The Dursleys have had it out for him ever since he was dropped on their doorstep. But Harry has Hermione, and it isn't so bad. Until she suddenly leaves him and enrolls at Hawthorne Academy. Then, it suddenly is. AKA the non-magical high school AU that nobody asked for





	1. His Name is Harry Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 2/1/18 -- Finally reviewing this because I got some free time!!
> 
> Edited 5/20/18 -- I have discovered line breaks. Also, it is now fully Americanized

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you see. All rights belong to the respective owners and I am making no money off of this.
> 
> This story takes place in America. I won’t be using British English and it is based on American high school

 

It was an hour before dawn in the neighborhood of Little Whinging, Surrey. Cookie cutter houses, row upon row, lined the darkened streets. Everything was clean cut, polished to perfection. Not a single blade of grass was out of place. Placed strategically in front of every house was a driveway, perfectly perpendicular to the road in front of it. Beautiful gardens flourished under the constant care of their owners. One such garden, a three-time winner of the Ladies Garden Club competition, rested in front of Number Four, Privet Drive.

 

In the darkness of the smallest bedroom at Number Four, a teenaged boy began his day. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes as he rolled out of his bed. He knew the exact time, 05:03. It was the time that he woke up every day, never a moment later. The boy blindly reached for his school uniform, conveniently located on the desk chair near his bedside, and got dressed for the day. This was not without struggle, as the boy winced after stretching his arms too wide, aggravating old injuries.

 

The outfit was simple: a drab gray tee shirt that was once blue and pants, with an oversized flannel to cover it. A pair of ratty trainers with fraying laces completed the ensemble. Once dressed, the boy put on a pair of round-rimmed glasses which had seen better days. The neighbors had stopped asking why they remained broken years ago. His Aunt Petunia's constant reassurance that he was an ungrateful miscreant and unable to care for his possessions saw to that. The boy's movements- graceful, precise and cognizant of his surroundings, were evidence of a routine that had been followed daily for years.  The boy’s clothes were unremarkable and well worn, as was the rest of the room. At a first, cursory glance, it screamed ‘normal’ to anyone who would look inside.

 

The walls were painted a dull green, a color which slightly reminded the boy of a sickly toad. The bed, already perfectly made, was covered in a dark grey comforter and a set of pillows. A wardrobe stood next to it, it's doors carved with an odd but intricate pattern. The large desk under the window matched the wardrobe and had neatly stacked papers on top. Leaning against the wall across from the bed stood a bookshelf, filled with a myriad of books and trinkets. A lone soccer ball rested in the corner.

 

But not everything fit the description of a ‘normal’ sixteen-year-old boy’s room. For one, it was rather tidy with no dirty laundry strewn about. Traces of a sickly peach paint color that was the choosing of the boy’s Aunt remained where the ceiling met the wall. The pillows were mismatched, as were the handles of the wardrobe. One of the desk’s legs was a tad shorter than the others and rested upon a book. Another observation about the room that didn’t fit was the boy who lived in it. When he finally opened his eyes, which were a startling green, it was to look at the mirror on the back of his door in an attempt to tame his unruly black hair. The boy winced at the prominent bags under his eyes but knew that it wasn’t enough to warrant applying some of his Aunt’s concealer.

 

The boy was thin, with collar bones sticking out from his ratty oversized shirt, but he wasn’t gaunt. Because gaunt wouldn’t be _normal_ . And any deviance from _normal_ was met with fierce and swift repercussions. Petunia described him as a devil in the making to the neighbors when they gossipped, so that they wouldn’t be suspicious—just upturn their noses when they saw him. The boy snorted and scowled at himself. He shook his head and walked down the stairs, skipping over the squeaky steps as to not wake his relatives.

 

Once the boy entered the kitchen, he immediately went to the refrigerator to dig out the necessary ingredients. The amount of food in the fridge was astounding, but not surprising due to the sizes of two of the occupants. Digging out the usual pans, the boy set them on the stove and went back to the refrigerator for the milk and a rasher of bacon.  

 

As the eggs heated, he added cheese while he stirred constantly. This morning ritual was a reprieve for the boy.

 

_Simple._

 

He learned from instructions in cookbooks and they never faltered or changed their minds.

 

_Constant._

 

The boy turned away from the omelets long enough to fill the kettle to start the tea.  He then pulled down three plates and tucked them neatly into the warmed oven. The sound of footsteps on the stairs did not cause the boy to lift his head, as he knew that it was his aunt as usual.

 

Yet a single uttered word, “Boy,” caused him to look at her head and to greet his aunt with a nod. He poured a cup of tea, added milk and a single sugar cube. The woman took the cup without comment or thanks and sat down to eat.

  
  
A loud thundering was heard as the boy’s uncle and cousin stampeded down the stairs, quickly followed by their son, who looked absolutely ridiculous as he plodded around in his too-tight shirt that only enhanced his porcine features. Pulling a warmed plate from the oven, the boy began to transfer sausages, bacon and the omelets from the pans. He then transferred each plate to the table and started pouring the tea.  They sat down at the table as the boy finished plating his relatives’ breakfasts. By this time, the orange juice was freshly squeezed and his relatives were tucked tightly around the table.

 

Vernon spoke about the current politics while Petunia added in the occasional _hm_ at appropriate times. From what the boy could hear, most of what his uncle said was either wrong or taken completely out of proportion.  Dudley scarfed down his food as if he were eating his last meal, which it very well could be. The school nurse at Smeltings Academy was gobsmacked when she saw his extremely unhealthy weight.

The boy chanced a glance at the newspaper that his uncle was reading, but his uncle put it down before he could read anything except a single name: Flamel.

 

“And look here, Pet! These McKinnon people think it is a good idea to take the money from hard working citizens like us and just give it to these no-good jobless freaks! No wonder this country is going to the dogs!"

 

The boy propped himself against the counter and sipped at the plain tea from the chipped blue earthenware mug. The tea was from the very bottom of the pot which made it over-steeped and bitter but the boy didn’t complain.

  
  
"Boy! Why is my cup empty!" Without a word, the boy set aside his own tea and completed his uncle’s loud comment. When he was done, he returned the pot to its place and then topped off his cousin's orange juice without being asked.

 

  
Ten minutes later he had put away the last saucepan, wiped down the counter, and turned to take the many empty breakfast dishes from Dudley. When the boy’s hand reached out to take the plates, Dudley grabbed his skinny arm with a large, meaty hand and squeezed hard. The boy suppressed a wince and looked at his cousin.

 

“Where’s my homework, freak?”

 

Dudley had an odd look on his face, a pathetic attempt at a sneer. The boy thought it rather made him look more like a constipated whale.

 

“It is on the table next to the front door, Dudley.”  The boy willed the heat behind his voice away, if only to prevent himself future harm. Dudley only smirked at his seemingly submissive response; the boy’s face was still blank/passive, belying his true thoughts. The boy had changed his mind. He decided that his cousin looked more like a constipated pig.

 

“Well then I must have forgotten. My bad.”

 

Just as suddenly, the hand around the boy’s arm was gone as Dudley walked away, but the mark of his fat hand remained. The boy suddenly had a strong urge to take his shower as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

The two boys, polar opposites, sat on opposite ends of the bus on their way to school. Dudley sat in the back with his group of friends, the boy walking towards a familiar mane of bushy hair. The boy was too busy speculating on how long it would take for Dudley to grow so large that he broke the seat that he didn’t notice when the girl called his name.

 

“Harry Potter!” the girl exclaimed for the second time, her bucktoothed smile wide

 

“Hermione Granger!” exclaimed the boy in the same fashion as he sat down, poking fun at her exuberance of seeing him. Hermione moved her bag to the ground and Harry squished into the seat next to her. The springs underneath them squeaked, but it couldn’t be heard over the jungle that was their bus.

 

“Have you finished your essay for Mr. Lockhart's class yet? I thought the assignment was quite ridiculous. Who cares about the books he wrote? They aren’t even accurate to the time period! The way that his character treats women are despicable! I can’t believe that Mr. Lockhart promotes these types of things in class.”

 

As Hermione ranted to her best friend about the injustices of the world she rooted through her bag, seemingly having trouble locating something in the sea of books floating around in it. She temporarily ended her rant when she let out a small ‘aha!’ and handed Harry a small plastic bag with an apple and a few granola bars inside.

 

The more she spoke, the more her bushy hair seemed to frizz up. Hermione refrained from patting it back down, knowing from experience that touching it only made it worse. Her untamable hair contrasted her pristine outfit.

 

Her feet were clad in shiny black mary janes and black knee-high socks. She had on a dark blue sweater that seemed soft enough that Harry wanted to wrap his entire body in. The white collar of her shirt stuck out above the sweater and was ironed to perfection. A plaid grey skirt fell modestly to her knees.  To top it all off, her pale blue scrunchie was wrapped tightly around her wrist. Harry smiled when he saw it and was reminded of the day he got it for her.

 

“But really Harry, did you get some work done this weekend? You know that midterms are coming up soon and we have to be ready for them. And according to the older students, Ms. Bagshot always assigns the same review packet each year along with an extra credit project, which I thought we could partner up for. Oh! And for physics, Mr. Viridian told me that we would be having a pop quiz sometime next week, which I suppose is this week now, but I’ll quiz you during lunch to make sure that you get good marks. Which I’m sure you will of course, but-”

 

Hermione continued to remark about the happenings of the week, Harry munched on his apple, gazing out the window.

 

“-Mr. Bryce should be giving our chemistry tests back sometime this week, I’m sure that I missed that one question on centripetal forces—”

 

Here, Harry had to interrupt his best friend’s antics with a fond tone,‘’Mione, we have known each other since we were eleven, yes?”

 

Hermione nodded her head in assent.

 

“And in the five years that I have known you, how many tests have you failed?” Harry was smiling now.

 

“Well, none, but—”

 

“None. Exactly. You have no reason to worry about.” At her best friend’s reassurance, Hermione relaxed and her hair visibly deflated a bit. Harry steered their conversation towards the topic towards the delightful Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley, letting Hermione passionately describe her wish to meet someone wonderful and compassionate like Mr. Darcy as Harry saw the driveway of the school.

 

Smeltings High School came fully into view, the local public school the boy and girl attended. Identical yellow buses were pulling into the semicircle in front of the school, allowing students to pour out. Harry and Hermione continued their conversation on the positive and negative qualities of each of the characters as their bus entered the circle. Outside the bus was chaotic; girls traveled in packs, giggling to each other as they passed a group of guys kicking a soccer ball around. A set of speakers blasted music on the steps leading the entrance as students sat around. A skateboarder slid right in front of the bus, almost causing a collision, which caused the driver to start cursing riotously. Next to him, Hermione tsked at them and Harry stifled a laugh, thinking that it was such a Hermione thing to do.

 

* * *

 

Harry and Hermione walked through the busy hallway to their lockers, conveniently located across the hallway from each other. Stopping in front of his locker, Harry turned to his best friend.

 

“‘Mione, Mr. Lockhart asked us to bring the book he wrote to class today, right?” Harry asked with a grimace.

 

“Of course he did. I still can’t believe that he required us to buy a book _he_ authored. Does he know that this is a public school?”

 

As Harry reached up to grab his copy of Mr. Lockhart’s book—snickering at Hermione’s comment, the sleeve of his uniform rolled down, exposing his forearm where Dudley had grabbed him that morning. The redness had faded since then, but there were the beginnings of faint blue marks where his fingertips had dug into the bone. Harry noticed that his sleeve had ridden up and soon pushed it back down to his wrist. Neither of them said anything, but Hermione gave him a look that was worth a thousand words that were left unspoken.

 

“Harry-” Hermione started.

 

“Hermione-” Harry cut her off.

 

And the moment was gone.

 

The two walked across the hall to Hermione’s locker in silence, one not wanting to talk and the other not wanting to bring it up.

 

“I read Green Eggs and Ham over the weekend,” Harry said, hoping to steer their thoughts to something more lighthearted.

 

“Oh did you?” Hermione responded, grabbing a brown paper bag from her own locker and shoved it into Harry’s arms.

 

“Yeah, found it in the attic when I was putting some stuff away. It was short, and everything rhymed. Did you know that Dr. Seuss rhymed everything?”  
  
“Harry, everyone knows that Dr. Seuss rhymes. That is one of the appeals of his books. They’re meant for children,” Hermione stated, her tone of voice suggesting she was ready to start a lecture on the entire history of the author. At this point, Harry was leaning up against his own locker and rummaging through the bag that Hermione had given him.

 

“‘Mione, you’re the best. You know what, for you, and only for you, would I eat green eggs and ham.”

 

Hermione gave him a small smile that seemed to light up her entire face. Harry spread his arms wide, one hand still clutching the bag tightly as the other grabbed her by the shoulder to pull her into a tight hug. Suddenly, all he could smell was the flowery perfume that she wore.

 

Too soon, the first bell of the day rang through the hall and they ended their embrace.

 

“Hurry up Sam, or you’ll be late for art!” Hermione smacked his arm in jest. Harry refused to wince at her action and continued to smile.

 

“I would remind you to have fun in class, but I know that you will.” Harry joked back, his smile coming to him more easily now. It was always so easy to joke with Hermione about the little things.

 

“And tuck in your shirt!” Hermione shouted to Harry’ retreating back. She shook her head at him and walked away, still smiling at her best friend. She made her way to her class, making effort to not look back at her best friend behind her.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a non-magical high school AU that began as a plot bunny in my head many years ago. It has been sitting in my docs for a while now and I decided I may as well post it.
> 
> I would like to thank my Beta, the lovely Too Many Obsessions To Choose. She is too good to me and is amazing. I would also like to thank my friend the one the only dylanpidge
> 
> First, if you were wondering, the final outcome of this story will be Harry/Hermione.  
> This is Harry!whump. We will eventually get some huft/comfort and some romance in here too. 
> 
> The setting is somewhere in America, hence the High School AU. I am basing all of their outfit choices on my knowledge of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 10/10 I highly recommend that show if you are interested
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please write a review about what you liked, didn't like, noticed that was interesting, etc.
> 
> If you plan on flaming this story, at least leave some sort of constructive criticism instead of ‘this story sux’ -- @that anon, thank you for your advice!!!1!!
> 
> So to repeat, THIS STORY TAKES PLACE IN AMERICA!! I have edited it to reflect this since it was not apparent when I originally posted.


	2. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing

****The late bell rang just as Harry walked into art class, taught by Mr. Quirrell. The classroom was large and airy and always managed to smell like glue and crayons, despite their non-use in that class. The room was comprised of numerous large tables that were well used and covered in paint splatter and marker scribbles. Harry moved quickly to a chair at a table near the window and set his books down while taking out the brown paper bag that Hermione had just given him. When Harry opened the bag, he saw the familiar elegant cursive of Dr. Emma Granger on a bright green post-it note.

 

_Harry, wishing you to have a good day in school today!_

_-Emma_

 

Harry closed the bag and smiled, knowing that someone cared. He gingerly placed it back into his backpack where he knew it would remain safe and then looked up to the front of the room.

 

As per usual, art class was restrained chaos. Mr. Quirrell remained unfazed as he spoke over the quiet murmuring of conversations taking place throughout the room to explain the plan for the day’s lesson. The students were to paint red poppies onto their canvases that were already set up on the tables to make a collection for Veterans Day in a few months. Before starting his own project, Harry turned around and looked outside to see how actual flowers moved in the wind. Comparing the flowers in the garden to Mr. Quirrell's vase in the front of the room in his head, Harry sketched out the lines onto the canvas using a light graphite pencil. Harry then dipped his brush into his palette. Just as he was about to place the brush on canvas, Harry was rudely startled by his cousin’s antics. Luckily, none of the paint transferred and Harry tried to tune the boys out.

 

“Potty!” Piers Polkiss jeered with his friends. When Harry didn’t respond, they threw a balled up piece of paper at his back. Dudley and his gang sat at the table next to his own, always looking out for a moment when Harry was caught unawares to ruin his day for their own pleasure. Knowing the usual routine, Harry dodged at exactly the right time and caught the paper in his hand, not even glancing away from his current task. Feeling the sneers of Dudley’s gang on his back, he let the paper fall to the floor and acted as if nothing had happened. Harry knew from experience that he needed to avoid confrontation with them, or he would end up a lot worse than what he had gotten this morning.

 

And so Harry continued to paint, focusing on creating precise brush strokes. _Back and forth._ Definitely not on the papers that were repeatedly thrown at his back. _Up. Across._ Definitely not on the pencils that were hitting his arm. _Down. Across._

 

Harry never noticed his growing annoyance transform into anger. Instead, he breathed a sigh of relief as their pestering stopped, hoping that they grew bored of him but dreading that they found a new victim. He never noticed them moving to the back of the room. He didn’t notice that their destination was the supply closet, or that they were smirking as Malcolm snuck inside and the rest of them stood guard outside the door. Harry didn’t notice any of this, and neither did Quirrell.

 

He did notice, however, when Dudley purposefully strode to the front of the classroom. Harry immediately grew suspicious and started to watch him out of the corner of his eye, still attempting to focus on completing the assignment.

 

So focused on Dudley and whatever he could possibly be doing talking to scatterbrained Quirrell, Harry never noticed the can of paint that made it over his head. It gushed out of its container like a raging waterfall in the spring, covering Harry’s head completely. It spattered over the table and Harry’s partially-completed canvas.

 

Harry stood still, arms stretched out away from his body. In his shock, he could feel the paint languidly dripping down the rest of his form. It was moving from his hair, now soaked and holding his normally unruly hair down in a way that hair gel never could. Some of it bypassed his glasses which were completely covered in paint and stung his eyes so he closed them tight. His upper body was not spared from the onslaught either and Harry could feel it seeping through the cloth of his shirt and pants and staining his skin. The smell of it was so strong he knew it must have been different from the typical tempera paint they were currently using in class.

 

The room had gone silent for a single moment. Then, chaos erupted. Dudley, Piers, Malcolm, and Dennis were cackling like hyenas, taking in Harry’s soiled state. Harry restrained his anger, humiliation, and hatred. He tried to feel nothing. He was nothing. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? He was nothing.

 

He took off his glasses, useless now, and tried to wipe the paint from his eyes without making the burning worse. Harry refused to cringe from the pain, knowing it would only make Dudley happier. Taking the entire scene in, Harry noticed the girls in the class looked horrified. For what, he didn’t know. And at this point, Harry didn’t care either.

 

Mr. Quirrell swiftly made his way over to Harry, anger and confusion settling onto his face at the sight presented to him.

 

“Who is responsible for this?”

 

As suddenly as the chaos had started, at the sight of Quirrell’s uncharacteristic fury the boys who had caused the ‘accident’ grew quiet. However, the boys’ faces still smirked at the scene. They knew that nothing would come of the incident, as nothing ever did. Knowing this, Harry responded for them.

 

“It seems as if I have had an accident, sir.” The paint that was on the edge of his mouth made it into his mouth and at this, Harry grimaced. He couldn’t wipe it away on his sleeve, so he suffered in silence. “May I please be excused?”

 

Mr. Quirrell’s face grew blank as his eyes scoured Harry’s figure. The boy was covered in red paint. At first glance, it looked like blood. Except no human could have that much blood in their body. The paint steadily dripped down and onto the floor, making a puddle near his ratty trainers. He shook his head at his student, “Go and change from your accident. I’ll get this handled, Mr. Potter.”

 

Harry nodded his head in thanks only to have the paint drip back into his eyes. He reached down to grab his bag that was similarly soaked. His shirt squelched uncomfortably as he did this which made Piers and Malcolm snicker. They quieted when Mr. Quirrell sent them an angry glare.

 

As he left the room, the students whispered to each other and Harry ignored them to the best of his ability. Trudging through the hallways to the nearest bathroom, he hoped he didn’t run into anyone. Or anything, as the paint was still wet.

 

“It would just be my luck if I get in trouble for vandalizing school property,” Harry murmured to himself.

 

Thankfully, nobody was in the bathroom at the time and Harry dropped his book bag onto the floor. With more grace than his bag, he placed his glasses on the counter. Looking at his blurry form that was more red than grey, Harry angrily struggled out of his ruined flannel, accidentally ripping an already frayed seam. Harry cursed his rotten luck. Grabbing a handful of paper towels that were stacked by the sinks, Harry roughly began to scrape off some of the sludge that was covering his body. Slowly but surely, he was making progress. His hands and face were red from where the paint had been, a combination of the how hard he had scrubbed at them and a stain from the paint. Harry reached up to drag his hand through his hair but was unable to run them through the mess.

 

Harry cleaned his glasses with soap until he could see once again and then realized that he still had the taste of the paint in his mouth. Harry reached down into his backpack and looked for the paper bag that held the food that Dr. Granger had packed him for the day. The outside of the bag was spattered with red, but the food inside was still good. Harry took out a sandwich and looked at it before putting it back. “Knowing dear Dudders, he will complain and blame me for all of this,” Harry thought sourly to himself. Deciding to save the food for a more desperate time, Harry rinsed his mouth out with soap and water.

 

Checking his watch, Harry decided to make his way to the gym before the bell rang and everyone in school would be able to see him. At least this way, he would be able to change into his gym clothes instead of letting the paint dry. A few students stared at him as he walked through the hallways but all Harry felt was drained.

 

Having some time once in the locker rooms, Harry took a hot shower and scrubbed off as much dried paint as he could. When the bell finally rang, the water flowing into the shower drain was still red. With a sign, Harry dried off and changed quickly. He looked at himself again in the mirror and realized that his hair was a lost cause at this point.

 

As the rest of the students filed into the locker room, Harry unobtrusively made his exit. He went to talk to Coach Kettleburn about going to the nurse for eye drops where he found Hermione. Or, more specifically, Hermione found him.

 

“Harry! I heard what happened! Are you okay? I heard that Quirrell let Dudley and the others go and that you said it was an _accident_!” Hermione was wearing her gym clothes as well and as she spoke, her eyes trailed over Harry’s now red-looking hair and hands.

 

“Hermione, it’s fine. It’s better this way, you know that.” To Harry’s statement, Hermione worried her lip between her teeth and then she spoke softly.

 

“I know Harry, it’s just. I can’t- I just want you to be okay.” Her voice grew softer as she stared into Harry’s eyes.

 

“Your eyes! Did the paint get into your eyes? Do you need to see the nurse?” She brought her hands up to cup his face and tilt his head down even more so she could get a better look. Harry blinked rapidly in response before smiling wryly.

 

“It’s just a little red, ‘Mione,” Harry joked, gesturing to the rest of his body and trying to diffuse the tenseness that he felt in his body. Hermione sighed exasperatedly and shook her head at her best friend’s antics as she lowered her hands back to her sides. She turned and started ranting to the air around them.

 

“We both know that Dudley is an ass. He was the one who started calling me insufferable and a know it all, but you could have gotten hurt! The paint got in your eyes, Harry! Don’t you see-”

 

“Well, it’s the seeing part that I’m having a minor problem with-” He was right. The rims of his glasses were just as red as the rest of his body.

 

“Harry! God, you’re insufferable. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it! At least blame Gordon or Malcolm, so one of them gets in trouble. Please!”

  
  
“Mione…” Harry started, “Look—I know you know… that it is better for everyone right now if you just leave it be.”

 

“You, Mr. Potter, deserve better. You deserve the world.”

 

“Well, Ms. Granger, you deserve the world, too. And the moon. And the stars.”

 

Their moment was quiet as they smiled at each other. Then it was broken as Coach Kettleburn yelled at the assembled students to go run laps.

  


* * *

 

 

Mr. Lockhart’s creative writing class had always a test of patience for Harry. Granted, he had plenty of experience from living with the Dursleys, but Lockhart was a wholly different beast. The entire class was pointless and annoying. The classroom was small and covered in posters of the assigned books as well as mirrors so Mr. Lockhart could stare at himself as he taught. Of course, he justified them by saying that they added more light to the room, so the school board ignored them.

 

Today’s lesson revolved around Lockhart’s latest fiction work, _Year With The Yeti_. It wasn’t a true story of course, but Lockhart enjoyed acting out the scenes and called it ‘character building’. After all, a student who could get up in front of the class and defeat creatures surely built confidence! Harry snorted at the thought but sobered his expressions when Hermione gave him a glance from her desk next to him.

 

“Now, can anyone tell me how me, well the _fictional_ me, defeated the Yeti?” asked Mr. Lockhart. His eyes glanced around the room and lit up at Hermione’s raised hand. Hermione always knew the answer, and Lockhart loved her devotion to his books. Harry didn’t think Lockhart realized that Hermione would be devoted to almost any book that she read.

 

Ignoring Lockhart’s agreement with Hermione’s answer-- “Gilderoy gave the Yeti a head cold which then weakened it enough for him to capture it.” As Hermione continued talking, Harry spaced out and remembered how fun last year’s English class had been. Mr. Lupin had been Harry’s favorite teacher. He always found a way to make class interesting and engaged the students.

 

_“Okay class, today we are going to be talking about fear. Fear is one of the main plot points in Catch-22. Being surrounded by war and constant death tends to breed fear. Shocking, I know. Add in a healthy dollop of Catch-22 and a bureaucracy that covers up ugly truths to seem competent and successful, and you've got a good recipe for some good old-fashioned paranoia. Characters in this novel have no trust or faith and live in constant fear of betrayal. They read into others' actions too deeply and often assign them unintended messages—sort of like misinterpreting a text from your crush. However unfounded their fears are, these fears have real consequences because those in power often act on assumptions, with negative consequences following soon after._

 

_“Today, I want us to think about fear. What do you fear in your lives? We live in an era of peace. Do you fear bad grades, or mummies, or heights? Or do you fear what these things represent? Failure, death, and falling without something to catch you. That is what those fears represent. How can you relate what you fear to how the characters in the novel fear and how do both of you react?” Then, he paused and looked at his students. The air in the room felt heavy with suspense. “Form groups and discuss whether Yossarian is a coward for refusing to fly missions, or that his fear is rational and healthy and not a cause for shame.”_

 

_At this point, most of the class had made up their minds about the character. Many of the guys in the class had deemed Yossarian a coward. But the group discussion led to passionate debates. When the discussions were almost about to become angry arguments, Mr. Lupin raised his voice once again._

 

 _“I can see that you all have strong opinions on this subject. Now I heard some interesting points raised by Harry… Harry_ . Harry! _”_

 

“Harry!” whispered Hermione at him again, breaking him out of the memory. Of course, Mr. Lupin had never called him Harry.

 

“Sorry, ‘Mione. Thinking about the good old days where we didn’t have Lockhart as a teacher.” Harry gave her a secretive smile. Hermione knew how much Harry had adored Mr. Lupin.

 

“Yeah, he was great. I miss him. We actually had discussions! And talked about the motivations of people and the psychology! Sometimes I don’t want the easy A here, all I have to do is remember that Mr. Lockhart’s favorite color is-”

 

“-Lilac” joked Harry sardonically, interrupting her. The two snickered at each other before looking around the room to see if anyone noticed their exchange. At the moment, Mr. Lockhart was animatedly talking with another student and a group of boys was throwing paper airplanes to each other.

 

Eventually, Mr. Lockhart managed to get the class’s attention and he continued with his lesson once more.

  


* * *

 

 

Harry trudged through the door of Number Four Privet Drive slowly, knowing his haphazard appearance would be ridiculed by his Aunt Petunia. Her routine was well known by the boy.  She would be in the kitchen, making her precious Dudders his customary after school snack. The boy’s aunt would see him, then scold him and force him to get to his room before he soiled the rest of the house. But whatever the boy imagined, it wasn’t what happened.

 

His Aunt Petunia had stopped dead in her tracks and was staring at him, almost as if he had seen a ghost. The plate in her hands was gripped tightly. The boy waited for the reprimand, but he only heard a weak “Go upstairs and get that ridiculous color out of your hair.”

 

It wasn’t screeching like her voice normally sounded like, instead, it was a whisper of pain like she had been hit in the chest. Not looking this gift horse in the mouth, the boy scurried up to his room to take off his ruined uniform and wash the paint out of his hair.

 

As soon as the boy got to the bathroom, he stripped his ruined clothes. He looked different than he had in the morning. His skin was splotched with red paint that hadn’t come off. His hair was red. Somehow the paint had clumped around his hair, making it look like it was dyed. At this, Harry thought of Alice in Wonderland and painting white roses red in the Queen of Heart’s court.

 

He remembered that the color hadn’t come out when he had showered at school, but he knew that if he didn’t try it would make things worse. So he showers again but nothing changes. The red is still there. The boy got dressed and readied himself to make dinner. Once immersed in the familiar task, the boy loses himself to his thoughts.

 

Dudley arrived home with a flurry of noise. The door slammed open as he stomped into the house. “Mum!” he shouted. “When is dinner? I missed my afternoon snack!” From the living room, Petunia soothed her son with loving rubs on the back. The boy didn’t listen to the rest of their conversation and returned to his task. _He must have been terrorizing the locals again,_ thought Harry.

 

As Dudley made his way into the kitchen, green eyes looked up and saw red paint on Dudley’s shoes. A closer inspection saw that Dudley’s hands were red with paint. If Petunia had noticed that it was the same red paint on his shoes and hands, she didn’t say anything about it to Harry.

 

As the Dursleys sat down for dinner, Vernon picked up on Petunia’s unease. The mood around the table was stifling. The boy’s Uncle Vernon didn’t hesitate to break into conversation about his own day at work and how the waiter serving him lunch was definitely bad mouthing him and his coworkers.

 

“It is because of the way he was brought up! Them Pakis don’t know how to act with us civilized folk,” continued Vernon. The boy set down a plate in front of Vernon, knowing to serve him first. Unfortunately, the plate was let go too soon and made a loud _clunk_! The boy froze in front of his uncle, fear holding him in place.

 

“See! The freak just proves my point!” exclaimed Mr. Dursley. He reached out and grabbed at his nephew’s already bruised arm. He shakes him roughly, berating him for his “lack of respect! Bad blood breeds bad blood.” Petunia paled again as she stared at the boy’s profile in front of her.

 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m not feeling too well tonight. I think I’ll go to bed early.” With that, Petunia exited the dining room and headed upstairs. Mr. Dursley didn’t know exactly why his wife was upset at dinner, but he knew that it was because of his nephew.

 

“Boy! What did you do! Tell me!” shouted Mr. Dursley at his nephew. The boy didn’t respond, knowing it wouldn’t help. Not forgotten, Dudley piped up and told his father that Harry had spilled some very important paint in school that day.

 

“Did that happen today?”

  
  
“Yes, sir,” said the boy tonelessly.

 

“Upstairs! No dinner! It’s what you deserve for your freakishness,” bellowed Vernon.

 

“I’m sorry, sir.” Wordlessly, the boy exited the kitchen. His stomach grumbled as he made his way up the stairs, but the boy ignored it. He was used to this. Used to the harsh words and hard hands. Used to the disdain. It shouldn’t bother him anymore.

 

Harry took a deep breath as he entered his room. He raised a hand to run his fingers through his hair before remembering. He sat down at his desk and turned on his lamp, determined to accomplish at least one thing that night.

 

As he started to do math problems, the door to his room opened. The boy stood and faced whoever opened it. It was Petunia.

 

“Bathroom. Now.” His first instinct was to freeze. He hadn’t been sent there in years. Memories flashed before his eyes. Before the bruises was the bathroom and the bathroom meant that the boy was bad. _Dirty child_ , his mind hissed traitorously at him. Gritting his teeth, the boy stood up from his desk and made his way across the hall and into the bathroom.

 

Petunia entered the bathroom with a bottle of dish soap in her hands. She nodded at him and robotically took off his shirt. Standing in his pants, he kneeled by the side of the bath.

 

“No. Get in.” snapped Petunia. A breath was released from the boy, unbidden. He stood and stepped into the bath and waited for his aunt to make her move. She turned the water on scalding hot. The boy refused to flinch as the heat turned his skin dark pink.  “Get your hair wet. It can’t stay this color.” The boy did as asked and tilted backward, avoiding getting his face wet.

 

“Good, lean over.” And with those words, she worked the soap into red strands. She scrubbed her nephew’s hair harshly, her fingers getting caught in the clumps of paint that remained. Slowly, the paint dissolved and stained the bathwater pink. The boy sat still, his body moving whenever Petunia gave an extra hard tug on a paint chip. The red transferred from his hair to the bathwater, staining the sides of the tub pink. The boy stared absently at them, wondering in the back of his mind how he would get them out.

 

Petunia stared at her nephew, his hair finally detangled. He stared up at her, expression guarded.

 

She knew he had her eyes. Her nose and her chin were right there in front of her. The boy’s cheekbones were higher and his skin darker, but when he looked at her with _her_ eyes, his lips set in a frown just like _she_ used to make. Well, Petunia didn’t know how she never noticed the similarities before. But his hair was black. That was what Petunia needed to focus on. Black, not red.

 

It was Harry standing in front of her. Her nephew. The boy.

 

“Get out of my sight,” she said, voice flat. She didn’t know which Potter she was talking to: the ghost of her sister or her dead sister’s son.

 

“Yes Aunt Petunia” the boy replied, leaving his aunt alone in the room.

 

Petunia collapsed onto the lid of the toilet seat. She stared down at her hands. _Why were they still red_ , she thought.

 

And as Petunia looked back up from her hands she saw long red hair in the mirror next to her, the same hard eyes as her son staring at her sadly again. No words were spoken between the two. Watery blue met vivid green. Life and death stared at each other, but which was which?

 

“I’m sorry,” Petunia said to her sister and left the bathroom. The rapidly cooling bath water flowed down the drain.

 

The room was empty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s the second chapter! Don’t know what is going on here but it is gonna keep going on. 
> 
> BUT 10 PAGES WOW
> 
> So here we see more of Harry's life. I'm trying to get in some of his thoughts and background before the actual plot happens. 
> 
> A decent amount of Remus’s speech about fear in Catch-22 is taken from Shmoop ( https://www.shmoop.com/catch-22/fear-theme.html ). I read like half of it in high-school and have no understanding if it fits or not. I wasn't sure how to format me taking it so this is me, not taking credit for it. 
> 
> Edit: Fixed some things that mentioned a uniform and professor if you are rereading. Thanks to my friend dylanpidge for beta-ing!
> 
> Please review about anything! I’d even take a ‘k’ ...


	3. Again and Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing
> 
> So this story takes place in suburbian America so yes, I will say soccer. Yes, they take the bus. Yes, Ron Weasley will later appear in the story and have a potty mouth and I will love him for it.
> 
> Anyway here's chapter 3!

The boy woke up in the dark. The sun was only starting to rise, but the routine was so well known he didn’t need light. He navigated his room and then made his way down to the kitchen to start his daily chores.

To the boy, the days moved as quickly as molasses, seemingly endless. Yet he dreamed of only bits and pieces of them.

A smile from Hermione, the only one who could always pull a smile from his lips.

A voice calling him. Demanding. Freak the voice calls him. Boy, the voice calls him.

Laughing on the bus. The familiar slamming of a locker.

“Good morning Harry!” A smile directed his way. A brown paper bag, sometimes with a joke written on it courtesy of Mr. Granger.

Rise. Repeat.

The boy woke up in the dark.

 

* * *

 

Harry was at his locker when he saw Dudley and his gang. Well, heard would be the better word. Their voices were loud and could easily be heard over the din of the cafeteria down the hallway. His standard response-- the logical one, his mind supplied-- would be to quietly slip away and avoid detection. Harry looked at the group and decided that he hadn’t been reckless in over two weeks, and that Hermione would understand his lapse in judgment this one time.

Harry slammed his locker door shut with a definitive clang, interrupting Piers’ monologue. “Knock it off, Piers,” he said to the taller boy. Where Dudley was around Harry’s height but at least triple his weight, Piers was tall and gangly with limbs that looked disproportionate to his body.

“If it isn’t Potty, back for more” Piers said to his friends, nudging Malcolm’s shoulder with his own, as they smirked at a new target.

“What’ve they ever done to you? Just leave them alone.” Harry stood up to his full height. He was short but still taller than the younger students they had previously been taunting.

“Why, Potty? You wanna take their place?”

Harry could have rolled his eyes but instead twitched his head to the empty stretch of hallway, trying to get the younger kids to take a hint and leave. Unfortunately, they stayed rooted in place. Harry tried to think of another distraction and looked at the group in front of him. They had moved away from the kids and formed a circle around Harry, blocking away any exits. It was Dudley and Piers Polkiss, of course, who befriended each other on the playground of elementary school and had been bullies to everyone else ever since. Dennis Walsh wasn’t particularly bright and could be easily described as a big, lumbering ogre. Gordon Carr and Malcolm Smith had joined Dudley and Piers when they reached high school. Both were big brutes and would probably always be. Dudley stepped directly behind Harry, an immovable mass, preventing any escape.

“I like my odds,” Harry said with false bravado.

Honestly, he really didn’t like his odds. The other boys were all larger than him, and he was already tired from Vernon rough handling of him the night before. He figured any bruises couldn’t possibly get any worse. Now that everyone’s focus was on him, Harry knocked his head to the side, looking the younger student in the eyes. The kid nodded at him and grabbed his friend’s sleeve and pulled him away to safety before Dudley noticed.

From experience, Harry knew that Malcolm would be the first to strike out at him, so he quickly stepped left to avoid a fist heading to his face. Malcolm stumbled and everyone shifted. Nobody moved as they sized the other up until someone moved. Suddenly, everyone was in motion. Dudley threw a punch at Harry, who sidestepped once again and drove his arms up to push Dudley’s hand away, causing Dudley’s fist to move upwards and connect with Piers’ nose. Piers reacted by shoving Dudley face first into a locker, hitting his head with a solid clunk on the metal. Piers’ nose was bleeding onto his uniform, but he let it drip down as he stared, horrified as Dudley went down. Harry took a few steps away from the confrontation and took stock of himself. Other than a ruffled uniform, Harry was unscathed.

Suddenly, the bells marking the end of the period loudly sounded down the hallway. Nothing was said to Harry as the boys, sans Piers who was pinching his nose to staunch the blood, scrambled to pick Dudley up, none too keen on getting caught fighting in the halls.

Harry didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and quickly moved to his next class, discretely fixing his uniform as he did so.

 

* * *

 

Gym class with Coach Kettleburn was always a good stress reliever for Harry, and today he was more tense than usual from his interaction with Dudley. Harry had all the makings of a great athlete: he was good at running thanks to his time spent when he was younger running from Dudley’s ‘Harry Hunting,’ he had honed reflexes from his experience dodging his uncle and cousin’s fists, and had wiry muscles from all of the physical labor that his aunt assigned him. Unfortunately, Dudley and his friends shared his gym class this year, which meant that they loved to torment him whenever Kettleburn wasn’t looking.

On that particular day, they were playing soccer. After Coach Kettleburn’s announcement of the day’s activity, Harry threw a look towards his tormentors. They were standing around on the field and then broke apart when Malcolm volunteered to be a captain. Declan Wood volunteered to be the other team leader, as he was already captain of the varsity soccer team.

Both boys looked at the assembled class with smiles. Wood’s was genuine, and Malcolm’s… not so much. He mainly looked pained to be in charge. Harry wondered by Piers didn’t volunteer.

“Slater,” Wood called out, inviting one of his soccer teammates to play with him.

Harry stood by Hermione talking about the day and almost didn’t hear his name being called. Hermione pushed him and he proceeded to walk over to Wood’s team.

“Potter, what are you doing? You’re on my team” Malcolm called as he smirked wickedly at the other boy. Harry didn’t like this one bit, knowing that whatever was going to happen on the field would not be good for him. He knew he wouldn’t remain unscathed from a second confrontation with Dudley’s goon.

Piers and Gordon ended up on Wood’s team, as did Hermione. Harry was left alone.

Kettleburn nodded as the teams were finalized and dropped two mesh bags of pinnies onto the ground and then motioned Harry and the opposing goalie, a tall girl Harry didn’t know, over.

“Potter, Reynolds, make sure to grab a pinnie in a different color and gloves,” Kettleburn said,

The two nodded in affirmation and went to grab their things. Harry trudged to the goal, nervous about the game. He sees across the field that Hermione has been put on defense, meaning that they would have little to no interaction during the game. He shivered from the wind and rubbed his bare arms with thickly gloved hands. It didn’t help.

Piers ended up as a striker, quickly gaining possession of the ball. As he made his way closer to Harry in goal, his sharp eyes noticed that Piers’ gym uniform was thankfully free of blood. Piers easily maneuvered around the defense on Harry’s team. Presumably, Malcolm had chosen the worse people to guard Harry to make it easier for Piers to get to him. Piers kicked it directly at Harry’s face, determined to give him a matching bloody nose to the one he had in the hallway earlier that day. Without thinking, Harry reached up with quick hands to catch it, fingers squeezing the ball tightly just inches from his face. His surprise was shown with a quick grin as he tossed it back into the field and he could see Hermione’s smile from all the way across the field. Harry’s success only fueled Piers’ rage. He gained possession of the ball each time, roughly shoving other students to the side to get it. He dribbled the ball towards Harry and shot with extreme prejudice towards the smaller teen, but each time Harry blocked it. When Declan Wood, a forward like Piers, reached the ball before said aggressive boy, he performed a chip shot. The ball was aimed above at least a foot above Harry’s head but still under the crossbar of the goal, making it an easy point if it went in. Except it didn’t. Harry stood panting after he had jumped to block the ball from entering the net with his head.

Wood’s smile grew fanatic as he played against the raven-haired boy. Piers was annoyed that his plan to humiliate and hurt Harry had failed and instead his intended victim was enjoying it. And it was true. Harry sported a wide grin as Wood made shot after shot, only for them all to be blocked. His adrenalin from earlier that day was flowing through his entire body as he played. The whole team was amazed that Harry Potter of all people was the one who ended up being a soccer prodigy. Previous experience playing soccer showed only minimal talent, not this fantastic coordination that they were seeing.

Piers grew fed up as the game stopped and now people were only trying to score on Harry and marched off the field to grab an extra ball. He proceeded to kick it with all of his strength at Harry just as Wood did the same. Harry’s eyes widened a fraction as he saw both balls speeding toward him. A clever display of acrobatics allowed one to bounce harmlessly off of his chest and the other was rebounded violently off of his head as he knocked it away.

Wood’s entire face lit up with excitement as he babbled excitedly at Harry about joining the school’s team,“We’re sure to win the championship if you join. You need to, like, it is your duty to join the team!”

Harry blushed under the scrutiny as a few other members of the team also spoke up in favor of him joining. Apparently, their last goalie had graduated the previous year and her replacement hated her current position and was better suited as defense. And then Dudley had to go and ruin the moment. Exactly when he had come back from the nurse, Harry didn’t know, but just seeing his face soured his mood.

“He’s too dumb to play. He spends all his time in tutoring, so he can’t play,” Dudley said exceptionally eloquently. Harry held his tongue. The team members looked at him skeptically.

Suddenly Coach Kettleburn spoke up, “Wood’s right, but I’m sure we could figure something out about tutoring. There’s an excellent tutoring program for student-athletes so they don’t fall behind. I’ll write to your parents about it and I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic for you to play.”

Harry’s good mood had deflated, and he only nodded in agreement to end the conversation.

 

* * *

 

There was always something else for the boy to do. Repaint the shed. Mow the lawn. Wash dishes or do more laundry. At times it seemed the list of things for him to do was never-ending. His time there was never-ending.

 

* * *

 

“Stop moving! I’m almost done!” Harry stayed as still as he could and let Hermione finish.

“You’re hurting me!” He winced and attempted to turn and give Hermione a hurt look, but was steadied by her hands.

“Then stop moving and it will hurt less,” Hermione replied offhandedly. Harry continued to stare at the wall in front of him.

Harry knew her face must be scrunched up as she focused. It was what Hermione called her Focusing Face, but Harry always joked that it was her Constipation Face. Her brows would be scrunched up causing wrinkles in her forehead. Her mouth would be set in a firm line with her lips pinched together. She would be biting her lip with frustration. Or maybe she would be sticking her tongue out as she maneuvered her hands.

“This is stupid,” Harry announced to the empty classroom that he and Hermione were occupying. Their argument was an old one and lacked heat at this point, more a joke between best friends than a cause for anger.

“You’re being stupid,” Hermione reprimanded, entirely ignoring Harry’s indignation, before sticking out her tongue in concentration. It was a habit that Harry often teased her about, but this time he had more important matters at hand.

“Did you just call me stupid? I’m offended” Harry placed a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“I was talking to your hair actually.” Harry couldn’t argue with the statement but did so anyway.

“You already know this! My hair doesn’t cooperate!” Harry said, still acting hurt. As if they both didn’t already know the perpetual sorry state of Harry’s hair.

“Well excuse me for thinking it was finally long enough for me to braid,” Hermione stated. It had been a while since Harry’s last haircut and Hermione was ready to try her hand at braiding it again.

“Is it?” Harry reached up to touch his head, but Hermione smacked it away. Harry snorted but complied and his hand went back to the chair he was sitting in.

“Yes. But some pieces are falling out,” Hermione replied. Harry turned to face Hermione.

“I want to see,” Harry replied, not the slightest bit worried.

“Maybe you don’t,” Hermione said, only slightly nervous now. She never got the hang of hair braiding, no matter how many times her mom and eventually Harry tried to explain it.

“No, I’m pretty sure that I do,” Harry replied confidently. He made grabbing motions with his hands towards her.

“Alright fine,” she says, as she pulls out a small mirror set from her bag.

“Oh.” Harry’s face was set in a slight frown as he examined his hair. It was braided in a crown braid around his head, secured with a small elastic at the end. It looked even more of a mess than it usually did.

“‘Oh’ That’s all I get?” Hermione’s arms were akimbo on her hips as she inspected her work as well.

“I mean, it’s nice?” Hermione’s eyes grew wide with disbelief at the backhanded compliment. She hated not being able to do something, especially something that could be learned with practice.

“‘Nice’ he says. You’re a big fat liar.” Hermione harrumphed at him, trying to look indignant but failing when she looked at Harry’s unusually happy face. Harry could only laugh at her as she started to undo the braids once more. After all, she needed the experience.

 

* * *

 

Harry was cleaning the floor in the kitchen when the doorbell suddenly rang. Not expecting anyone else in the house to get it, Harry placed his rag down and walked to the front of the house to answer the door. When he opened the door, he was met with the stoic face of Coach Kettleburn.

“Mr. Potter, good to see you. May I speak with your guardians? I have an important issue to talk to them about.”

“This is about the soccer thing?”

“Yes, actually. You have talent, kid. I’m sure your aunt and uncle would love to see you play on the varsity team!”

Petunia made her presence known with a loud sniff.

“Good evening, Mrs. Dursley” Kettleburn huffed out. “Your boy here has done wonderfully in practice. I’m sure he has told you all about it!” He gave a rough pat to Harry’s shoulder, almost knocking him over.

“Of course, Mr. Kettleburn. Why wouldn’t we be proud of a nice boy like Harry.” Petunia said the words with as much care as she possibly could, which to say, was not much at all. Coach Kettleburn didn’t seem to sense her lack of warmth and instead barrelled on.

“Then you must know of my offer. A position on the varsity team. He would get a letter for each season he played, and I know plenty of recruiters who would love to get their claws on him.” At the mention of recruiters, Petunia’s brain finally kicked in.

“Recruiters you say?” She simpered at him. Harry noted that she was acting like one of Vernon’s clients was over for dinner.

“Why of course! I played back in the days, too. Coached around before settling down here. I know plenty of them! Why, me and my boy Druthers--” Petunia cut him off there.

“Please excuse us, Mr. Kettleburn. I want to talk privately with my nephew about this… opportunity.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

“Please Aunt Petunia,” he said, “Coach said I have enough talent to get me a scholarship to a good college if I keep playing. And that’s good for you! I mean, you won’t have to pay for it and I’ll be away from you all.”

Harry was acting in a way that Petunia had never seen before. His pleading smile when he talked about soccer was the same smile Lily wore whenever she was passionate about something. And those green eyes…

“No,” she said firmly. Harry’s smile fell as he ducked his head down to look at the floorboards. He had gotten his hopes up for nothing.

“Not unless you keep up with your chores. All of them. Do you understand? No complaining, no dilly-dallying. I want none of it.” Petunia stated, her mouth forming a thin line when she finished speaking. It emphasized the lines on her face that belied her age.

“Of course! Yes! I mean, thank you for the opportunity, Aunt Petunia.” Harry’s green eyes once more were lit up with that familiar hidden flame once again.

She looked down her nose at the boy, her nephew, before turning on her heels and heading back into the living room where her guest was waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t play soccer. I know nothing about soccer except from what Google has told me. 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Please let me know what you think!! Please review!
> 
> And if you’re interested to know what happens next, follow the story!


	4. Cold (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you see. All rights belong to the respective owners and I am making no money off of this.

 

The previous two weeks had gone well for Harry. Vernon had only roughed him up a few times, he was officially on the varsity soccer team, and Dudley was too busy trying to get into some girl’s pants to busy with bothering Harry. Of course, with the annual Ladies Gardening Club competition coming up Petunia was worried, which made her anxious. And when Petunia was anxious, she liked to take it out on her nephew.

 

“Boy,” she ordered, “go out and weed the garden. Can’t have them sprouting up next week for the contest.”

 

The boy looked out the window at the ominous grey clouds. Everything looked gray, including the brightness of the flowers in the garden. Their usual vibrant colors seemed to be swallowed up, leaving them dull looking and subdued.

 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia” he dutifully said, finishing up the lunch he had made.

 

Wedding in the cold was, well, cold. The boy’s hands gripped the weeds as tight as his numb fingers would allow and pulled. He was tired, cold, and hungry but he knew better than to complain. Nothing would improve and he would end up with more bruises because Petunia would end up in a worse mood.

 

He grabbed another weed- a dandelion, his mind supplied- when something cold and wet hit his hand. He started at the back of his hand for a moment before looking up.

 

 _Splat_.

 

A raindrop hit his glasses. Looking down to his dirty hands and stained rag of a shirt, he resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be able to dry them. The drops continued to steadily fall and he kneeled down again. As soon as he reached for the next weed, the drops grew in size and intensity until it was pouring wholeheartedly. The boy looked to the illuminated window of Number Four Privet Drive longingly but went back to work. The knees of his pants were soaked with mud from kneeling and the cold had seeped into his bones. His fingers were an angry red where he could see skin and he had trouble unclenching them from a fist. Luckily, the mud had made it easier to pull the roots of the weeds out, but the rain on his glasses obscured his vision. For a moment, the boy wished there was some magic that could repel the water from his glasses, but he knew that was impossible.

 

He leaned forward to get a closer look. God forbid he pulled a tulip instead of the weeds. Aunt Petunia would have his hide. He reached out to grab another dandelion when a loud crack of thunder bellowed above him. He startled and fell forward into the muddy soil of the garden. His fast reflexes allowed him to maneuver his body to avoid any of the tulips. He gingerly pushed himself up, fingers squelching in the cold mud, and looked at what he had landed on. The pansies. Luckily, they were close to the ground and his body didn’t do much damage.

 

The boy was called back inside after an indeterminate amount of time. The sun was hidden behind the clouds and the yard work always calmed the boy into working mindlessly. Shivers wracked his body as he trudged inside, acutely aware of how muddy he was.

 

His aunt sniffed at his appearance.

 

“Go upstairs and wash up before you make even more of a mess.”  

 

Petunia made a gesture with her head to the footprints and the dirty puddle that had formed around Harry near the doorway “Be sure to clean this up. Promptly.”

  
“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” mumbled the boy, trying to keep his voice free of any tremor.

 

“What was that, boy?” questioned Petunia. She glared coldly at her nephew, making him shiver in a way that was unrelated to his sopping state.

 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” repeated the boy, louder than before. His voice cracked on the last syllable, making the boy flush in embarrassment.

 

“Good. I expect dinner to be ready by 6:00” stated Petunia before she walked away to the parlor. The boy stood alone then made his way upstairs, trying to not leave any evidence of his existence on the floorboards behind him as he walked. He failed.

 

“Boy!” could be heard throughout the house as the boy in question was changing. “I thought I was clear about the floors! These marks better be gone by the time he gets here!” The boy looked up to the ceiling as if praying to a non-existent deity and then let out a soft curse. He needed to hurry up.

 

* * *

 

The next day was just as gloomy outside but that didn’t stop Petunia from sending the boy outside. The air was thick with fog which meant that taking each breath was a struggle. He coughed into the arm of his too thin, oversized shirt to avoid coughing on the zinnias and somehow infect them with whatever he had.

 

Staying hunched over the previous day had left his back stiff and sore. Today he was trimming the bushes which meant that he was standing up when he finished. His legs were stiff from being locked together to stay standing and his coughs shook his whole frame.

 

He made his way back inside where it was warm and he showered before preparing dinner. He made sure not to cough on it, no matter how painful it became to hold them in.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday meant school. The boy woke up in the dark and in pain, not an unusual combination. He made to follow his normal routine, but then remembered that the family was on a new diet. It was all Dudley’s fault, really. The coach of the school’s boxing team told Dudley to figure out a way to lose some pounds to be in a lower weight class. To encourage Dudley to lose the weight, Petunia had thought that the entire family should participate. For Harry, it meant that he would be getting even less food than normal.

 

The boy grabbed a cutting board and a knife and started to cut up the grapefruits for breakfast. He sniffled as he worked, trying his best to ignore his clogged nose. He heard the commotion of the Dursleys getting ready in the morning upstairs and laid plates out on the table.

 

Petunia was down first and she gave the table a cool glance before sitting down. There was a pounding on the stairs which resounded in Harry’s head. He knew nothing would come from complaining about it and resolved that it would eventually go away. Vernon took his place at the head of the table and glared at the grapefruit halves that sat there. Harry felt his nose start to drip but refused to do anything about it. He knew that if he showed any weakness he would be locked in his room for trying to contaminate the rest of them.

 

He had a test in Lockhart’s class and the man was an arse about making things up. So Harry persevered through the day and took his test, hoping that he didn’t completely fail it.

 

After the class, Harry met up with Hermione in front of their lockers as they walked to study hall.

 

“That—that—that fraud! What type of questions were those? That was a farce of a test. I should complain to the board or someone! Do you think they would fire him?” asked Hermione. Lockhart was her least favorite teacher. And coming from her, hating a teacher meant something.

 

“I’m pretty sure that he knows some of them on the board. And I think he knows Mrs. Donaldson especially well, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Harry!” exclaimed Hermione, swatting his arm with a laugh.

 

“I’m serious, though. If there were gossip columns in the school newspaper, that would be there. Their interactions make me need some industrial strength bleach to get it out of my head,” laughed Harry.

 

“They aren’t that bad,” trailed Hermione, before realizing her error and giving an exaggerated grimace.

 

“Exactly,” Harry replied absentmindedly as he rummaged through his bag.

 

“Whatcha looking for, Harry?” Hermione asked.

 

“Tissues,” he replied, now sticking most of his arm into the bag. He wished he had a flashlight to illuminate the inside, as he still couldn’t find it.

 

“Are you sick?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. Harry’s nose was red and irritated and she had already noticed his cough. In fact, anyone who was near him heard his hacking cough. It was a loud thing and as wet as the ground outside. A passing student made a grossed out face as they passed.

 

“It’s fine, probably just a cold. Everyone gets them around this time of year,” said Harry, now triumphantly holding a small pack of tissues. He blew his nose and then cringed at the noise. Or maybe it was the contents of the tissue that made him cringe. Either way, Hermione’s heart ached for him.

 

“If you say so. Have you gone to the nurse?” questioned Hermione, looking distinctly concerned. Harry had stopped trying to hide his face behind a tissue and shook his head ‘no.’ He wondered if Hermione knew any ideas of how to feel better fast. He probably could have done some research or asked for help, but his mind was working extra slow that day.

 

“I have some cold medicine in my locker. Gimme a sec, I’ll grab it.” It was almost like Hermione could read what exactly was on his mind. He was grateful that he didn’t even need to ask for help.  
  
“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” Harry swallowed two of the pills that Hermione had poured from the bottle. Hermione watched in satisfaction as Harry accepted the help that she offered. She wished that she could do more for his other problems, but she was a realist and knew her best friend almost as well as she knew herself.

 

Looking to change the subject to something more positive, she asked, “How do you think you did on the test?”

 

“Not too badly. Your study guides were a lifesaver, ‘Mi. Some of the questions he asked were ridiculous.” Harry had walked to a nearby garbage can to rid himself of the tissue and then let out another wracking cough.

  
“ _He_ is the ridiculous one,” said Hermione flatly, trying not to let her concern flood her voice.

 

“Do you need water? Or some medicine? I’m sure I have some in my locker, or maybe the nurse has some?” suggested Hermione

 

“No, I’m fine,” Harry insisted, his tone making Hermione drop the subject.

 

“Help me study for physics?” asked Harry as they walked into their room.

 

“Of course! Grab your reference sheet and your notebook. I have a list of practice problems.”

 

The two worked well together, borne from years of practice. When one was having trouble, the other helped them solve it. They stopped for a small breakfr but managed to stay on task thanks to Hermione’s inability to leave problems unsolved. When the bell rang, it was Harry who pulled Hermione away from her paper.

 

“C’mon. Time to go,” insisted Harry. He grabbed her books in one hand and held the crook of her elbow in the other as he pulled them into the crowded hallway. For Harry, the rest of his day passed in a blur of crumpled tissues and loud coughing. As soon as he got home and finished his chores, he fell into bed as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was shining into his room the next morning. The boy hated it. He hated how his clock said that it was 7:00. He hated how he woke up late. He hated how it was Tuesday. He hated Tuesdays in general.  You think nothing bad will happen, but _bam!_ There it is. And it is always horrible. Or maybe it is because his life was always horrible? The boy didn’t want to think about it.

 

It was a typical bus ride to school after he made a rushed breakfast of sugar-free cereal and fruit. He didn’t dare cough or sniffle or give any sign away that he was sick. Sickness was weakness, and he had learned long ago to not show any signs of weakness in front of the Dursleys.

 

But Harry knew he was sick. Undeniably. Unquestionably. Un… something else ably. He was excused from Bagshot’s class after one of his coughing fits disrupted the teacher’s lecture. She had suggested that Harry see the nurse and wrote him a pass. Unarguably! He was unarguably sick.

 

Instead of going to the nurse, Harry decided to skip the rest of his classes. He had swallowed his pride and asked Hermione for some medicine earlier in the day so he was feeling at least _slightly_ better. _Maybe I can stay in the park until the bus comes. Or the cafe?_ Harry’s brain was fuzzy as he contemplated his options. He then realized he needed to tell Hermione his plan so she wouldn’t worry about him. Plan resolved, or at least part of a plan, he started to walk to where his and Hermione’s lockers were.

 

He took a step then turned his head into his arms again as a series of wet coughs forced their way through his throat once again. The hacking motion caused Harry’s headache to intensify. He walked through the hallway with one hand on the wall to steady himself. When he felt the same tightness in his chest he closed his eyes and coughed, just as someone bumped into him.

 

He fell to the floor.

 

_Harry landed on his hands and knees, one ankle twisted awkwardly underneath him. The papers in his hands were fanning out on the floor. Harry scrambled to pick them up but froze when he heard the voice of his new English teacher speak up._

 

_“Sorry about that, Mr. Potter. I must not have been looking where I was going.” Mr. Lupin said as he bent down to pick up his own papers that were now on the ground. Harry didn’t bother correcting him that it wasn’t his fault and kept his head down._

 

_“It’s no problem, sir,” he said before rushing off._

 

_Lupin finished picking up his papers and then noticed that one of them wasn’t his, and must have belonged to a certain black haired student of his. He opened his mouth to call him back, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Remus resolved to give the paper back after class the next day and placed it in his briefcase._

 

Harry opened his eyes to see the girl looking at him and asking if he needed her to get the nurse. Pushing off of the floor to stand up, Harry shook his head and told her that he was already on his way to the nurse. Looking relieved, the girl rushed off to wherever she had been going.

 

Instead of going to the nurse like he had said, Harry continued on the path to his locker. He managed to spin his combination into his lock to grab a piece of paper to write Hermione.

 

_Mione,_

 

_Leaving school early today. Don’t worry, it’s just a cold._

 

Opening Hermione’s locker was always difficult. The girl’s locker was always filled to the brim with various books and folders, but given Hermione’s neatness, never managed to fall over or seem untidy. Harry hung the note on the door of her locker with a square magnet that had ‘Save the Whales’ printed on it.

 

Readying himself to leave, Harry remembered something extremely important: soccer. Harry internally cursed. Harry trudged to the gym, not even trying to hide how sick he felt. He knocked on Coach Kettleburn’s office door and the coach waved him in without turning around from his desk.

 

“Hey, Coach” was all Harry could croak out of his sore and abused throat before Coach Kettleburn swiftly swiveled his chair to face Harry. He pinched his fingers in an aborting motion.

 

“No talking. Especially if you sound like that, kid. Jeez! No practice, either. Get a note from the nurse, and you’re golden. Got it?” Harry opened his mouth to respond, but a glare from his coach stopped any words before they came out. He nodded instead.

 

Harry sighed and made his way to the nurse, knowing that he needed the note. He loved being on the team and hanging out with the guys, and they were happy to have another goalie on the roster. He met Mrs. Merrythought in her office and she glanced at him before asking him to sign in on the notebook on her desk. He did so and when he finished she handed him a note without being asked.

 

“Your coach phoned my office. You’re clear. Go home and sleep. If you still feel like this after three days, go see a doctor.” Harry nodded as the old nurse shooed him out the door. He looked down at the note in his hand with a dazed look in his eyes and walked out of the school with his coat on, shivers wracking his body. Nobody stopped him when he left.

 

Making it to the bus stop was relatively easy. It was just one foot in front of the other, over and over again. He staggered his way to the bus stop nearby and then slouched on the nearby bench. His eyes involuntarily fluttered shut and he rested his head on his shoulder.

 

 _“Mr. Potter, if you could stay after class, please,”_ _said Mr. Lupin. Hermione packed up her books extra slowly as she tried to listen to whatever their teacher had to say._

 

_“Don’t worry, there’s no problem. I only wanted to return a paper that you had left on the ground when we collided the other day.” Harry was confused. He had all of his papers. Then his eyes widened when he realized exactly what the paper in question was. He schooled his features quickly._

 

_“That one wasn’t mine,” Harry denied, shaking his head. He furrowed his brows in an attempt to look confused. Over ten years of living with the Dursleys had taught Harry to hide his achievements. He had learned it very well, and failure resulted in punishments he didn’t like to think about. _

 

_“Well, it certainly isn’t mine either. But that’s too bad; it is exceptional work. The paper deserves an A, maybe an A+ with some careful editing,” the professor mused, looking down at the paper in his hands. Harry clenched his jaw to prevent himself from saying something he would regret._

 

_At this point, Hermione’s head stopped looking back and forth as she too had realized what Mr. Lupin held in his hands._

 

_“Well I don’t get As in class, so it can’t be mine,” reasoned Harry. He thought that maybe Mr. Lupin would drop the conversation if it was clear that Harry wanted nothing to do with the paper._

 

_Hermione worried her lip, then made a decision that would change everything. She shot an apologetic look towards her best friend then turned to her teacher and started to explain._

 

_“It’s Harry’s. He doesn’t want to tell you but now I am. But I make him write them. A good copy, so he tries hard, learns something! But he can’t get better grades than his cousin so he makes a bad copy, too. That’s what you get. And that’s why he does so poorly in class.”_

 

_There was silence in the room for a moment._

 

Harry was startled out of the memory by the bus honking. He rubbed his eyes to try and wipe the tiredness away and then stood up, only to double over when a wet cough forced its way out of his mouth again. He winced at the sound. The bus driver’s name was Stan according to his nametag.

 

“Alright, kid?” he asked Harry.

 

“I’m fine,” Harry replied shortly and handed Stan the bus card to pay. When Stan gave it back, Harry walked down the aisle to find a seat then stared at the card. The Grangers had given it to him if he ever needed help. Here he was, getting his way to help. He stared at the card before blinking rapidly. _Shit_ , he thought to himself and then coughed again. He felt a twinge in his ribcage and his head fall back against the headrest of the seat. His eyes closed in defeat.

 

_Harry hung his head in shame, embarrassed that Hermione had given one of his secrets away to a virtual stranger. He didn’t care how good of a teacher Lupin was, it still wasn’t Hermione’s secret to tell._

 

_“Well,” began Mr. Lupin, “I see you are in quite a predicament here, Mr. Potter. I see only one way to end this,” Harry readied himself for more detentions, but what came from Mr. Lupin’s mouth was “I want you to hand in both papers. Your paper, as well as the one you want to be graded. I’ll count only that one but you will still be getting the education you deserve.”_

 

_“But sir-” Harry began,_

 

_“No buts. No Bs either. I want work that deserves an A every time, and maybe we’ll have to start having extra tutoring if it becomes necessary for you. Do you understand?”_

 

Harry was thrown from the memory when the bus lurched forward and the driver’s voice spoke overhead “We’re now at the Hampstead stop, next stop Heathgate”

 

He gathered his bag and made his way off of the bus. Luckily, the Granger’s house was only a few blocks away from the bus stop. He walked there in a haze. A thick fog enveloped his mind and his one focus was to lie down, and soon.

 

* * *

 

Both sooner than he thought and later than he needed, Harry arrived at the Granger’ brownstone and opened the door with his key. He toed his shoes off at the door and made his way to the couch in the living room, where he promptly fell asleep with his head on one of the oversized pillows.

 

_“Mr. Potter, have a seat,” Mr. Lupin offered, gesturing to the wooden chair in front of his desk._

 

_“First of all, I just want to thank you for agreeing to this. I hate knowing you have such amazing potential but can’t show it. Now, I know this is the first time you’re here with me, but this is a great opportunity. If you need extra tutoring, or homework help, or even just somewhere to sit quietly and eat lunch, that’s what this can be. But you will need to tell me. I’m not a mind reader.”_

 

_“Yes, Mr. Lupin,” replied Harry, squirming in the seat under his teacher’s expectant gaze._

 

_“Excellent!” said Mr. Lupin, leaning back in his chair. He gave Harry a conspiratory smile and continued, “I have also been told I give excellent advice on the topic of girls if you ever-”_

 

_“Mr. Lupin! Uh, no thank you, I mean. I just- I mean I’m fine. Thanks. ” Harry interjected quickly, speaking rapidly as a soft blush formed on his face. Harry could sense no danger from humoring the man in front of him and he genuinely seemed to care. Any tension he once felt seemed to ooze out of his body and he relaxed._

 

_“You do seem especially close to Miss Granger,” said Mr. Lupin. Harry nodded in confirmation._

 

_“Yeah, I am. She’s the best.” He looked to the door of the room, remembering that Hermione was probably in the library doing some form of extra credit work._

 

_Mr. Lupin just hummed in acquiescence, a small smile on his face._

 

_Harry blinked._

 

_The room was different._

 

_There was writing on the blackboard behind Mr. Lupin’s desk. The wooden chair that Harry usually sat in was in its usual spot next to Mr. Lupin’s desk. It was different than the typical student chairs that moved around with the desks. Larger and completely wooden, it had scratch marks on the armrests. Today, a fancy pillow sat on the seat of what Harry had claimed as ‘his chair._

 

_“Mr. Potter, I’m glad you could make it.” Mr. Lupin suddenly appeared, startling him._

 

_Harry slowly sat down on the cushion that lay on the chair._

 

_“Er- thanks Mr. Lupin. For you know-” Harry gestured to the cushion that he was currently sitting on._

 

_“The cushion?” Mr. Lupin gave Harry a warm smile that lit up his tired face._

 

_“I get bored sometimes and like to keep my hands busy. The cushion seemed appropriate for the amount of time you spend sitting there.” Mr. Lupin picked up_

 

_“Thanks again, though. So comfortable,” Harry said. He leaned back in the chair and moved around a bit, settling into the soft pillow. A warm feeling settled in the bottom of his stomach, moving outward as if he had swallowed a sun. He liked having someone think about him. It made him feel less alone. Sometimes it was just him and Hermione against the world. But maybe that didn’t have to be the case._

 

_“Harry, every time you sit in that chair, it brings me back. It makes me feel less, what do you kids call it these days, ‘carbon-dated’?” Mr. Lupin gave a small chuckle_

 

 _“Mr. Lupin, you aren’t that old,” protested Harry. He had no idea how old Mr. Lupin was exactly, but he wasn’t_ that _old. Not as old as the history teacher, Mrs. Bagshot. Now_ she _was ancient._

 

_“You’re keeping me young, Mr. Potter.” Mr, Lupin proceeded to pick up his pen and started to write comments on some of the papers_

 

_“Harry, please,” declared Harry. He thought that Mr. Potter felt too formal for these extra lessons. Plus, he liked being reminded of his name. He didn’t hear it often enough._

 

_“Well, my name is Remus actually. No need to call me Harry, Mr. Potter” countered Mr. Lupin. Harry grinned at him and looked up through a fringe of black hair and smiled._

 

_Harry blinked._

 

_The room was different._

 

_Frost covered the windows of the classroom, and the ground outside was white._

 

_“‘Gazing from my window to the streets below, on a freshly fallen, silent shroud of snow,’” said Harry as he looked out the window. The roads were freshly plowed, shoving gray dirty snow to the side of the road that ruined the peaceful scene. An occasional car passed by, but for the most part, the world outside was quiet._

 

_“Simon and Garfunkel, Harry?” questioned Remus. Harry shrugged his shoulders and continued to look outside._

 

_“It seemed appropriate.” Harry turned away from the window and headed towards what was officially ‘his’ chair. There was a blanket covering the back of the chair now, making it even more comfortable than it normally was. He pulled out a notebook from his bag beside the desk and started to write the first draft of the essay that Remus was going to assign later that week._

 

_The words on the paper appeared as gibberish to Harry, but he wasn’t concerned. He wrote absentmindedly, only occasionally looking down at his paper._

 

“Worry about him” was written there. _That isn’t right, thought Harry. He erased them and then continued writing. His pencil stopped on the page. He couldn’t think of anything else to write. Harry stood up and moved to the window to look outside again. Sighing, he went back to his chair to continue writing. When he looked back at his page, he saw that all of his writing had changed._

 

 _“_ Poor boy,”

 

“Nothing we can do right now,”

 

“Horrible people,”

 

“Let him sleep,”

 

_Three different people had written in his book, as shown by their different handwriting. He recognized them, but couldn’t put a name or a face to the writing. Frustrated and annoyed, Harry erased the words once again before continuing to write._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> This used to be a really long chapter, so I split it up. The second half will be posted sometime next week. To think that I was going to post all of this with Chapter 3! That would have been sooo long. Anyway, if you’re confused, let me know. I wrote this in tiny pieces during my orgo lecture so I’m hoping for the best.
> 
>  
> 
> The quote that Harry says about snow is not mine. It is from the song ‘I Am A Rock’ written by Paul Simon (and made popular by Simon & Garfunkel) that I remembered reading and analyzing in 10th grade when we were doing the Catcher in the Rye unit. I was writing about snow and the phrase “shroud of snow” just came to me so I decided to include it.
> 
>  
> 
> Someone DMed me and asked how much of the story I have written, and I’m going to say that I have the entire plot outlined and just need to put the words on paper, er, the words on the screen? But yeah! No idea how long this will end up being though!
> 
>    
> Thanks to my friend dylanpidge for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the reviews!!
> 
>  
> 
> If you’re interested to know what happens next, follow the story!


	5. Cold (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you see. All rights belong to the respective owners and I am making no money off of this.

_“‘Four thousand three hundred and three pounds fifty,’ Matilda said._

 

_There was another silence. The father’s face was beginning to go dark red._

 

_‘I’m sure it’s right,’ Matilda said._

 

_‘You ... you little cheat!’ the father suddenly shouted, pointing at her with his finger. ‘You looked at my bit of paper! You read it off from what I’ve got written here!’_

 

_‘Daddy, I’m on the other side of the room,’ Matilda said. ‘How could I possibly see it?’_

 

_‘Don’t give me that rubbish!’ the father shouted. ‘Of course you looked! You must have looked! No one in the world could give the right answer just like that, especially a girl! You’re a little cheat, madam, that’s what you are! A cheat and a liar!’_

 

_At that point, the mother came in-“_

 

“I always liked it when you did the voices for the characters, but you could never manage to get the dad’s voice right. It’s a problem,” Harry rasped out softly, interrupting Hermione’s reading.

 

He had finally managed to open his eyes to look up at Hermione. Of course, she was reading _Matilda_ . It was Hermione’s favorite book growing up and had introduced Harry to it when they first became friends. He had many memories of them reading it, and on one memorable occasion, going out to see it in theaters the year before and getting mistaken for being on a date. And so, the two friends found a book that they could agree on reading together that wasn’t _The Lord of the Rings_ , which was too time-consuming to read in one sitting.

 

“Oh, now I’m the one with a problem? _You_ have a cold! A distinctly unhealthy problem, I might add.”

 

“It isn’t that bad.” Harry then coughed. Loudly. Hermione primly handed him a tissue to blow his nose. He resolutely did not accept it.

 

“You didn’t even grab your blanket from the couch,” reminded Hermione. She was talking about the dark green blanket that her grandmother had knitted for him one Christmas. It had become an unspoken rule that it would remain at the Granger household for whenever Harry stayed over.

 

“Well I was tired,” retorted Harry. This was not a lie. But even half asleep after an entire day at an amusement park, Harry had managed to grab the blanket before going to sleep on the couch.

 

“ _Tired_ , he says,” settling the book down on her lap. She continues to talk to the empty room, one hand making gestures as she spoke “Mr. Tired over here must also live in Liarsville. Or Denial Land. Oh! Maybe he lives in Idiot Town! Or T.F.O.O.P.!”

 

“T.F.O.O.P.?” Harry asked, confusion clouding his voice.

 

“Town full of oblivious people!” At this moment, Harry was reminded that Hermione should never be allowed to name things. He was not looking forward to the day when she created something they would all use and have to call it something ridiculous.

 

“Sit, Mr. Oblivious. I’m reading.” And so Harry did. Even as his eyes drifted shut. He was soothed by the comforting voice of Hermione.

 

_“At that point, the mother came in carrying a large tray on which were the four suppers. This time it was fish and chips which Mrs. Wormwood has picked up in the fish and chip shop on her way home from bingo. It seemed that bingo afternoons left her so exhausted both physically and emotionally that she never had enough energy left to cook an evening meal. So if it wasn’t TV dinners it had to be-”_

 

Harry fell back asleep to the sound of Hermione’s silvery voice.

 

* * *

 

“Harry, wake up sweetie,” a soft voice crooned to him. Harry didn’t want to wake up. His favorite blanket was wrapped around him and he was just so warm.

 

“‘‘Mione?” Harry was confused. Hermione must have finished the book.

 

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m not young enough to be Hermione. C’mon, buggy. Open your eyes.” Harry groggily opened his eyes once again to see Emma Granger sitting across from him on Hermione’s reading chair, a small smile adorning her face. It was slightly painful; the crustiness from his eyes had practically glued them together, so he reached up to rub both eyes with his fists.

 

“There he is! I have soup. ‘Mi said you were sick.” Harry shook his head to the side. He hated feeling weak like this, but he knew from experience that Emma made the best soup.

 

“I think it is pretty obvious now,” Harry observed. He sat up straighter on the couch, blanket tucked around his legs to keep the heat in. He played with the soft fabric under his fingers  
  
“It sure is. Soup is for the sick, which includes you right now. You need to eat something to keep your strength up. No ifs, ands, or-”

 

“-Buts. yeah, I know. Thank you. For this.” Emma then had an expression on her face that Harry still couldn’t name. It wasn’t concern, but something happier.

 

“Anytime you need us buggy, we’ll be here. Eat.” And with that, she shoved the plate holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup into his waiting hands.

 

* * *

 

When Harry woke up again, it was shortly after 7:00 pm. Even his internal clock which always alerted him to when it was dinner time was malfunctioning. Cursing, Harry stumbled out of the blanket and into the kitchen where the Grangers were having dinner.

 

“Harry! Nice to see you up and about! We didn’t want to wake you, but we are having dinner now if you feel up to it,” said Dan Granger.

 

“I have to go back. It’s too late out” insisted Harry. He should have been back at the Dursleys hours ago to make dinner.

 

“It’s taken care of. I called when I got home and saw you. Told them I picked you up from school with Hermione when you were sick.”  
  
Harry’s erratic heart rate had slowed down with every word that was spoken by Dan. He was fine. It was fine. Except he still hadn’t made dinner.

 

“Your aunt said that they were going out to dinner and a movie, and drop you off whenever we were done with you. So do you want food?” offered Dan.

 

“Or maybe more sleep? You still look a bit peaky” suggested Emma. She gestured to the empty chair next to her at the table.

 

“No, thank you. I really can’t stay.”

 

“Baby, it’s cold outside,” deadpanned Hermione.

 

“Har har, very funny. It’s a very chilly 75 degrees. But I really do mean it. I have to finish my chores.” He finalized his words with a cough that shook his whole body. That did nothing to reassure the Grangers of his good health.

 

“Please,” rasped Harry. Finally, Dan nodded his head and went to grab his car keys.

 

“Poor boy. Come here and give me a hug goodbye,” said Emma, arms open and ready for a hug. Harry walked over and placed his head on her shoulder as they hugged goodbye for the night. He felt her hand on his hip and something heavy fell into his pocket. He pulled away from her a bit and she gave him a conspiratory smile and said, “For you to get better. Read the note when you get back, okay?” Harry nodded and took a step back, reaching a hand into his pocket and fingered a small pill bottle.

 

“My turn!” shouted Hermione. Like her mother, she held her arms open and when Harry’s arms closed around her back, he picked her up and spun her around, causing her to laugh.

 

“I remember when Hermione was about five inches taller than you and was able to do that to you,” said Dan fondly, standing in the doorway to the kitchen with keys in hand.

 

“Ready?” asked Dan. He jangled the keys in front of him.

 

“As I’ll ever be,” replied Harry. Hermione walked with him outside to the car and caught Harry up on what he had missed in the rest of his classes that day. He walked out the door first, missing the glance shared by the Granger parents.

 

Once sitting in shotgun of the car, Harry decided to examine the bottle in his pocket, pulling out the small medicine bottle filled with pills. They shook around as he moved it from one hand to the other, marveling at how much the Grangers cared. A warm feeling erupted in his chest that had nothing to do with the fever he probably had. Harry wished he could go back to the Granger’s house and give Emma another hug. At this time, Harry spotted the Dursleys pulling into their driveway.

 

The two different cars pulled up to the Dursley household at the same time. Harry stilled for a moment and put the bottle back into the pocket of his oversized jeans, promptly forgetting about them. He took a deep breath as he looked over to Dan for reassurance and then unbuckled his seat belt and reached for the door.

 

“Harry,” Dan said. Harry’s hand froze on the handle. “I’ll talk to them about you being sick. Don’t worry about a single thing, okay?”

 

“Sure,” Harry replied. He hoped that his voice sounded more confident than he felt. The two exited the car and walked up to the front door to meet Vernon, who was waiting for them on the front stoop.

 

“Ah, Mr. Dursley! Great to see you again! I need to chat about Harry, here, for a moment.” He turned to face Harry, who was still standing next to him. “You go on up to bed, Harry. Feel better, okay?” Harry silently nodded and then walked into the house. He stilled when he heard Vernon call out for him.

 

“Harry! Are you just going to walk away like that? Thank the man before you turn your back on him! Where are your manners!” Harry turned to face the two adults.

 

“It’s no problem! Really. We said our goodbyes in the car,” Dan explained.

  
“Thank you for your hospitality, Dr. Granger.” Harry’s body language was stiff with discomfort but he stood up tall, even though all he wanted to do was slouch over and fall back asleep. Vernon puffed up like a peacock with an ego problem. And an eating problem. He turned to Dr. Granger and invited him inside.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Dursley, but I can’t right now. I’m just here to drop Harry off. I called you before and told you that I picked up Harry from school since you were unavailable and brought him over. I know that he works hard and has chores, but my advice as a doctor would be bed rest and lots of liquids. That means no chores, no schoolwork, no video games. Can you do that? Dan raised his eyebrows expectantly and smiled.

 

“Of course! Have to put him to work to keep him out of trouble, you know. The-” Vernon paused for a moment, “boy will be fine for the next few days.” Harry knew that Vernon was about to say freak, but fixed his mistake before it could come out of his mustached mouth.

 

“Thank you for your understanding. And I have a girl, so much less trouble than boys are, I expect.” The two laughed together before shaking hands and saying their goodbyes. Vernon turned around and walked back into the house, the pleasant smile on his face was replaced by an ugly scowl. His lips were curled away from his mouth, showcasing his too-whitened teeth. The boy stood back up from his slouch in the front hall, back straight and looking ahead at the wall. This is what made him so dangerous to the boy. His ability to seem so clean to others, then change his entire personality as if simply putting on another tie. The boy wondered how nobody else could see it. His uncle’s expression was hard as the vein in his neck throbbed.

 

“Go to your room. Don’t want you infecting the rest of us with your freakish sickness.” He stabbed his pointer finger at the younger boy with every word.

  
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The boy walked up the stairs, supporting himself using the rail. He made it to his room without collapsing and fell backward onto his bed, not even changing into pajamas.

 

The lights were off. A few moments later he heard his Uncle Vernon stomping up the stairs to stand outside his door. The boy’s body filled with adrenaline at the thought of him coming inside. The only sound he heard was the clicking of the locks on his door closing shut. The boy heaved a heavy sigh of relief before letting out a long series of coughs. Bracing his hand on his chest, the boy drifted off to a restless sleep.

 

* * *

 

On this fine Wednesday, the boy woke and didn't move. He had nothing he was expected to do. He didn’t have to do his chores, or make breakfast, or clean the house. It was a taste of freedom. Or, as much freedom he could have locked in a room. He grumbled to himself and sluggishly raised his elbow just in time to catch the cough that escaped his throat.

 

The boy sluggishly rolled over onto his back to avoid sitting on the uncomfortable lump in his pocket. With a furrowed brow, he reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out the small bottle of mixed pills and a pink post it. Feeling a bit like the princess in The Princess and the Pea, he shook his head in disbelief that he hadn’t even taken them out of his pocket. His mind thought back to when Emma had hugged him goodbye. Reading the note, he learned that the small red pills were for the fever and the larger blue pills were to help with his cough. e unscrewed the cap and swallowed two pills dry. He looked down at his wrinkled and rumpled clothes before dragging himself out of bed to put on pajamas.

 

He falls back into his bed, body aching, and wishing he could go outside and get a glass or two of water. He woke periodically, his body needing the extra sleep but his addled brain protesting against it, demanding that he leave the room and get something done before he could be punished. In this case, body won over the mind and he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Green eyes opened to the sound of a fist rapping on his door. He let out a breath of air, thankful that it didn’t get caught in his throat. He cleared out his throat before speaking, “Yes, Aunt Petunia?” The boy knew the other members of the household well enough to know it was hers. Vernon would have made more noise and Dudley would not have even interacted with him in his room. As small and dismal as it was, it was a space the Dursleys hated to be in.

 

The locks on the door began to unclick, one after the other, until they were opened and Petunia stuck her skinny neck inside the room. The boy was clad in a pair of Dudley’s old sweatpants, the skinny string at the waist pulled into an extremely large bow at the front to prevent them from falling down. His aunt glared at him as she walked into the room. He ignored it. Better a glare than something else.

 

She held a large plate in her hands that contained a glass of water and a bowl of soup with a thin slice of bread. The boy’s body responded, stomach grumbling and mouth watering, when it was reminded that it hadn’t eaten or drank anything in over a day.

 

Petunia sat the serving plate on the boy’s desk, giving another glare to the lopsided table as if offended that it even existed before facing her nephew. He made sure to not slouch in her presence and looked at her forehead, unable to directly stare into her stony eyes. She wasn’t Medusa, but like Medusa, she would probably enjoy her nephew’s company a lot more if he were a statue instead of a living, breathing human being.

 

“I’ll be back in a few hours with lunch.” With that, she turned on her heels and walked out the door. The boy waited until he heard the locks click shut once more before standing up and walking the short distance over to his desk and sat down and prepared to eat. Only, his aunt didn’t leave a spoon for the soup. Undeterred, he slurped down the soup carefully, not trying to make himself throw up. He globbed up the bread and soaked it in the bit of soup that was left in the bowl before leaning back into his desk chair. He stared at his reflection in the foggy surface of the metal serving dish and ran his fingers through his messy hair. He noticed that his normally tanned skin looked paler due to the sickness.

 

Too awake to go back to sleep, yet too tired to try to do anything else, the boy started some assignments that Dudley had left for him to do. Harry scoffed at the answers he was writing, but he had to keep them at least semi-realistic for Dudley’s teachers. If he answered them the same way that he did for his good homework… A laugh bubbled out of Harry’s chest before turning into another cough. It was drier than the others, causing less strain in his chest and more strain in the back of his throat. He remembered about the medicine and swallowed them down with a small bit of water that he had saved. The boy didn’t trust that his aunt would actually come back with more food and he wanted to keep the water just in case.

 

The sound of the knock on the door was the boy’s proof that his aunt was true to her word. He quickly moved from his bed to the desk and drank the rest of the water as he sat down and picked up a pencil, trying to look busy. She opened the door the second he started writing. He breathed a small breath of relief.

 

His aunt stiffly walked into the room, carrying a second metal serving plate with the same meal as before. She eyed the morning tray with distaste, as if she might be infected with whatever the boy had if she even touched it. She set the new tray onto the desk and gingerly picked up the old one.

 

“I’m not contagious, you know,” supplied the boy. His green eyes were wide and guileless as they stared at her.

 

“I don’t want to take a chance of you infecting one of us,” she sneered. Her upper lip curled in a way that it looked like she was copying her expression from her husband.

 

“I have nothing to do and I know I’m falling behind on my chores. Please, Aunt Petunia.” He reached up to grab the plate from her hands but she jerked away, making the dishes on the plate clink around. The boy flinched at her reaction and waited for a blow that never came. When he looked back up, his aunt was already out the door, slamming it closed and noisily locking every single lock. He looked back at his lunch plate and noted that he had a spoon this time.

 

He ate slower than he had with his breakfast, eyes turning to the window and watching the sun shine outside. He wished he could open the window to let some air into the stifling room, but like the door, it was also bolted shut. Vernon had called him a delinquent to the neighbors more often than not, so he was sure that they had no complaints about it. He ate quickly and went over the homework he had already done, hoping to find some answers in the ones he had already written.

 

When he looked up the next time, the sun was already dipping low onto the tree line. The boy stretched in the room he was given and started to pace, carefully avoiding the certain floorboards that squeaked. He stopped his pacing when he heard soft footsteps outside of his door once more. She opens the door with a sense of forced grace as she holds a third meal tray in her hands.

 

This time, Petunia allowed Harry to grab the tray from her hands. He placed it on his desk as she picked up the lunch tray. He spun around to face his aunt once more.

 

“Please. I need to catch up on them. I’ll do small things, but I already feel better.” The boy pleaded with his aunt to do the chores he hated, if only to get them done sooner. He knew he would rather split them up that day rather than doing them all the next day when he would have school work to complete as well. Petunia pursed her thin lips at the face her nephew was making. She sniffed at him and walked out the door, leaving it open as she left.

 

“Be downstairs in ten minutes,” she commanded. The boy’s head whipped up in surprise and he quickly ate his food. He made it to the bathroom with the desperation of a dying man and as he washed his hands, he rinsed his face with cool water. As he dried his face, his mouth released a small hiccup. Startled, he grabbed onto the countertop in surprise and stared at himself in the mirror. A small, amused snort graced his face before he sprinted down the stairs. He hiccupped once more before racing back up to grab the empty dishes on the desk.

 

As he walked back down the stairs, he was more careful. He skipped over the squeaky fourth step with ease and met his aunt in the kitchen. She was on the phone with the neighbors, probably, judging from scandalized gasps coming from her mouth. She placed her hand over her heart and let out a small ‘oh my’ before sending her nephew a glance. Speaking into the phone, “Can you give me a second, I need to grab something for my nephew.”

 

There was a moment of silence as she waited for a response from her friend. “Yes, _that_ nephew,” she said with a sneer. Walking with the phone cord uncurling from the distance she walked to the kitchen table and picked up the list before giving it to her green-eyed nephew. He mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’ to her before reading it.

 

The chores were all distinctly non-strenuous tasks that even Petunia did sometimes when the neighbors were snooping to make it look like she did work around the house. She would do anything to keep up appearances, that woman. He walked over to the small cupboard under the stairs to grab the cleaning supplies, ignoring the small crayon drawings on the sides of the door. That was in the past, and this was the now. And the now needed its living room cleaned. The vacuum whirred noisily as he turned it on but the boy welcomed the distracting sound. He forced the memories of unending darkness and utter loneliness that threatened to overwhelm him to the back of his mind.

 

The vacuum kept whirring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been writing most of this when I should have been paying attention in my orgo lecture. If you’re confused about anything, PM me! 
> 
> This was originally one large chapter, but I decided to split it up to keep with the 3k-4.5k ish chapters I’ve had going. 
> 
> Reminder that when I mentioned the temperature, it is 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Please do not be alarmed. 
> 
> I stuck with Dan and Emma as the names of the Drs Granger, as they are never explicitly said in the books. Also, calling them Dr. Granger the entire time got confusing to write. 
> 
> The book I pulled the quote from is Matilda by Roald Dahl. Fun book, love the musical! Highly recommend for you to listen to the soundtrack. I have a few scenes in the story that were inspired by it!
> 
> Shoutout to my friend dylanpidge for betaing this chapter!
> 
> If you like it, please review! 
> 
> And if you’re interested to know what happens next, follow the story!


	6. Stay, I Pray You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you see. All rights belong to the respective owners and I am making no money off of this.

**** Friday morning, Harry arrived at the bus stop with Dudley, who meets up with his Piers on the corner. Harry stood as far away from them as he can manage until the bus arrived. He played with the frayed ends of the massive flannel he wore as he eyed the other kids. Most were younger than him but there were a few seniors he didn’t know. Harry didn’t speak to any of them, keeping his head down and the attention away from his. When the bus arrived, he saw Hermione’s beaming smile through the window as she looked down at him. He plopped in his seat next to Hermione. Her smile grew excited as she gave him a tight hug. 

 

“Harry! You’re back! How’re you feeling? You missed so much! Well, not really. But I forgot how much time we spent together!” Hermione’s mouth was running a mile a minute as she spoke excitedly about the day he had missed.

 

“I got all of the work you need to make up. Mrs. Grubbly-Plank gave some worksheets and Mrs. Bagshot assigned a few chapters of reading with some questions, but we read those chapters a while ago when we were in study hall, so we just have to do the questions. Sound good?” As she spoke, she grabbed the customary brown-bagged lunch and handed it to Harry. He took it with little fanfare and continued the conversation. 

  
  
“Sounds great! Tell me all of the gossip that I missed, you know I’m a sucker for that, ‘Mi.” Harry’s voice got increasingly high pitched as he imitated the stereotypical teenage girl voice. 

 

“Well, Sherri Todd, the blonde girl in our English class, basically attached herself to me. I don’t know what she expected to happen. And, like, apparently Jennifer Barnes is hooking up with Joshua McCormack, who is still dating Hope Padilla!”

 

“Oh. Ehm. Gee!” Harry started fanning himself when Hermione lost it. Their laughter brought attention to them but the two didn’t care.

 

“You sound better. No coughing?” Hermione asked, a small frown replacing her joyful expression.

 

“Nope. All better,” Harry confirmed. 

 

Hermione gave Harry a beaming smile. “That’s great, Harry. But really, I missed you. I forgot how much time we spent together until Sherri kept annoying me.” Harry nodded in agreement about Sherri. 

 

“But I like Amelia. She’s sweet. I wonder if she knows yet.” Hermione’s face grew contemplative as she wondered about the normal school gossip. The trees outside blurred together as they drove to school. Soon enough, they were there and walking to their first class.

 

“I’ll see you later, ‘kay?” Hermione rushed off after giving Harry another fierce hug.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you are okay to go to practice?” Hermione was wearing her ‘worrying face,’ which was disturbingly similar to her ‘concentration face.’ Harry had an entire folder in his mind dedicated to deciphering each of her expressions and placing them with her moods. 

 

“Yes, for the fifth time. I’m fine,” Harry reassured her. She walked with him to the gym, determined to be there with him in case he felt sick again. Harry appreciated her concern but just wanted everything to get back to normal again. 

 

That afternoon when Harry made it to soccer practice, Hermione was in the bleachers for moral support. Harry waved at her as he did his laps with the rest of the team. Declan Wood was happy to have him back as he gave him a friendly shove when they did their cool down.

 

“Potter! Get over here!” Harry gave Wood a wave as he jogged over to Coach Kettleburn.

 

“Yeah, Coach?” Harry was only slightly huffing, which he thought was pretty good considering he hadn’t ran at all that week.

 

“You’re gonna run to catch up on your laps,” Coach said. Harry mentally groaned in response but didn’t let his disappointment show on his face. “Then, I want you to do four sets of conditioning stretches. At least!” Harry waited for the final shoe to drop. “After that, you’re going to do my paperwork. I hate it.” 

 

Harry blinked in response. No drills until he dropped? No miles of running? “Well, what are you waiting for? An invitation? Go!” Harry didn’t need prompting and got to his laps, keeping in mind that Hermione was behind him the entire time. Well, not literally, she was probably doing homework, but she was occasionally watching on the bleachers. She looked up as he ran on the track in front of her, which prompted a wave from her. He gave her a sarcastic grin with two thumbs up in response and kept running. 

 

* * *

 

The annual Ladies Garden Club competition was on Sunday, so Petunia was stressed. Like her husband, when she got stressed she enjoyed taking it out on her nephew. Unlike her husband, however, she preferred to hurl verbal abuse at her nephew to release her stress. The dark haired boy thought that she could take up yoga and get the same result, but he never spoke his thoughts aloud. 

 

Wanting to be seen in her garden, Petunia forbid him from leaving the house. It was almost as if being seen outside for one weekend erased the months of work that he had put into the garden. She stopped and chatted with the neighbors as they walked by, pulling off her floral patterned gardening gloves and wiping off nonexistent dirt to preen about how much work she had done. Their compliments made her glow in satisfaction as she shyly smiled and puffed out her chest in pride. Of course, as soon as it got dark out and everyone was going to bed, she sent the boy back outside to go through and weed everything one final time. The boy was tired and armed only with a small penlight, but he was ready for the garden to be the best it could be. His garden had a reputation as the three-time winner of the Ladies Garden Club competition, and screw it all if it wouldn’t be the four-time winner, too. 

 

Walking outside to the front yard was like stepping into another world. Despite it being September, the weather outside was still warm enough to enjoy without needing a jacket. A few crickets still lingered, chirping and creating noise in the darkness, despite the approach of fall. The combination of both the street lamps and the moonlight cast everything in a deep purple shadow, transforming everything it touched. The scent of flowers was thick in the air, as even his semi-clogged nose could smell them. 

 

He bent down to his knees and bit down on the penlight in his mouth, tongue tasting the metal of the handle with a bitter chemical he couldn’t name. Scanning the flowerbeds for any lingering sprouts of weeds wasn’t particularly strenuous, but the position he was in put strain on his neck and jaw, and his knees soon grew numb even after shifting around often. 

 

By the time the boy was done with both the front and the backyard, he allowed himself to fall back into the grass, laying out spread eagle. He wiggled his limbs and stretched out, cracking his toes as he breathed deeply, simply enjoying the quiet. He looked up to the stars to try and map the constellations he knew, connecting the names to the stars in the sky. He breathed deeply again, appreciating his regained ability to do so without coughing. He could sense it was going to be a good week ahead.

 

* * *

 

Petunia, unsurprisingly, won the garden competition. Again. The other women in the Garden Club stood around her as she took a picture in front of her lucky petunias. In her good mood as the victor, she decided to host a garden party the next day. Instead of doing his homework, the green-eyed boy was expected to set up, leave and not be seen, then come back afterward and clean up. After a long monotonous Monday at school followed by a few hours of soccer practice, he needed to stay up later and later to finish all of the schoolwork and chores he was assigned. Petunia was almost as bad as his math teacher. 

 

But he persevered. He loved being able to play soccer, and doing all of his chores with no grumbling meant that the Dursleys would let him keep playing. And if what Coach Kettleburn said was true, he could eventually get a sports scholarship to a college far away from the Dursleys and never see them again. After all, that was what he was waiting for: an opportunity to leave and never see them ever again. 

 

* * *

 

Harry and Hermione were once again sitting in their study hall.

 

“So why are we the only two people ever here? Like I know the bell rang at least five minutes ago,” Harry pondered as he worked his hands through Hermione’s hair. He cocked his head as he examined the braid he was creating.

 

“I think the other people in this are seniors, and they aren’t actually required to stay at study hall.”

 

“But don’t they have to check in with the teacher?” Harry was trying to figure out where everyone was. Underclassmen were required to stay the entire time, but seniors had the privilege to leave school and get food or go home, but only after they checked in with the teacher. 

 

“What teacher, Harry? Like you said, we’re the only two people ever here.” Hermione’s head pulled backward at a particularly strong tug of her hair.

 

“‘Mi?” asked Harry. He cocked his head to the side as he started to unravel the braid he had just started.

 

“Yeah, Harry?” She leaned forward, trying to get back into the position she was in before. 

  
  
“I think that you should be the teacher. It’s a great idea. I could get an A in a class for once.” Harry had made the executive decision for the two of them and seemed pleased with his choice. 

  
  
“Harry, you know that wouldn’t work,” Harry remembered the exact reason why he didn’t allow himself to actually get As in class and sobered his mood slightly. 

 

“I would be a horrible teacher. You’re better at explaining things than me.” Hermione’s comment made him feel a bit better, but then he started to explain his thoughts aloud. 

  
  
“That’s true. Because I have to think things through for a bit until I understand them, but you’re faster. You just know things. I get jealous sometimes.” Hermione frowned. If she wasn’t working on Harry’s bracelet, she would have crossed her arms and glared at Harry for even thinking such a thing. It was a tied string bracelet with a simple pattern, to replace the one that Harry normally wore around his wrist. The two friends had made each other the original bracelets years ago, but their bodies had outgrown them. 

  
  
“Harry, me knowing things doesn’t mean I’m necessarily smarter,” reasoned Hermione. 

  
  
“Well, it does sometimes. After all, between the two of us, which is the one smarter on paper?” Harry didn’t pause braiding her hair.

 

“Harry,” Hermione groaned. 

 

“I know, I know. But you know why I do it. Lupin knows, wherever he went. So that’s a total of two people who know I’m smart.” Hermione went to open her mouth, but Harry started talking before she could say anything.

 

“Coach Kettleburn probably thinks I’m smart, too, for some reason. He always makes me stay later to do his paperwork, it is the actual worst thing I have ever done,” Harry decided. His hands stopped moving and he grabbed the two braids he was doing in one hand. He leaned over to admire Hermione’s current project. The strings were various shades of reds and yellows and oranges, strategically placed to resemble fire.

 

“Lookin’ good. I like the color choices this time, ‘Mi,” Harry said excitedly. He was going to wear it proudly with his soccer uniform. The special goalie pinnie he wore had the same colors on it as the bracelet. 

 

“What does my hair look like?” questioned Hermione. Her fingers were still working on the bracelet but she was almost done. 

 

“I was going to do two braids before, but I started over and decided on just one french braid. ‘Cause we have gym later. Less hair whacking you in the face, ya know?” Harry let out a little laugh, imagining Hermione with two french braids swinging into her face every time she moved. Hermione hummed and nodded her assent, fingers knotting the string. He imagined her face at that moment. He was guessing it was her concentration face. Furrowed brows, tongue sticking slightly out of her mouth. 

 

“Harry, I need to tell you something.” Hermione’s tone of voice sounded uncertain and mildly afraid, so Harry’s assessment of it being her concentration face was wrong. It was probably her frustration face, instead.

 

“I’m sure the bracelet is fine, ‘Mione. It can’t be any worse than the first one we both made, and you’ve gotten loads better. A solid six.” Harry stopped his braids and peered over her shoulder to look at the string in her hands. It looked fine. She didn’t. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Harry tried to coax an answer out of her, his mind thinking rapidly of what could be wrong.

 

“Okay, if you won’t tell me, then I’ll tell you what I wished for. You know that’s bad luck. C’mon.” Harry wasn’t joking around. When the bracelets broke on your wrist, you were supposed to make a wish in a way that was similar to throwing spare change in a fountain. When Hermione didn’t speak, Harry did instead.

 

“Well, it fell off and I wished for-” Harry began. 

 

“I need to tell you,” Hermione repeated, interrupting whatever Harry’s wish was. Harry grew even more concerned than before, if that was possible. He let go of her hair completely and moved to look at her face.

 

“I’m just going to say it-” Hermione wasn’t looking at Harry at all. 

 

“Just say it! It can’t be that bad!” Harry said, raising his hands with the palms open, starting to get annoyed. 

 

“’I’m leaving.”

 

_ I’m leaving you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THAT WAS A CLIFFHANGER! Like chapters four and five, this has mostly been written in my orgo lecture. If you’re confused or there are any problems, PM me! It's a relatively short chapter, but the next few are around 4k so that should even it out a bit. 
> 
>  
> 
> The names of people you don’t recognize are random names I made up. I don’t know anyone named these and if you do, these characters aren’t based on them.
> 
>  
> 
> Title comes from the song ‘Stay, I Pray You’ from the Broadway adaptation of Anastasia. The song made me cry when I saw it and it seemed to fit. Plus, I listened to it a lot when I wrote this.
> 
>  
> 
> Shoutout to my friend dylanpidge for betaing this chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> If you like it, please review!
> 
>  
> 
> Subscribe if you wanna see how Harry reacts!


	7. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing

“’I’m leaving.”

 

_I’m leaving you._

 

A tense silence engulfed the room like a churning wave.

 

“What.” Harry took a small step back. His face closed up, the smile slipping off his face. His shoulders tensed and he looked piercingly at Hermione. She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, wincing when she looked over to him.

 

“What do you mean ‘I’m leaving’? You can’t just say things like that!” The pitch of Harry’s voice grew higher as his anger and anxiety escalated. He clenched his jaw in frustration.

 

“I meant it. I’m leaving this school. I was offered a spot at Hawthorne Academy, and you know how much I’ve always wanted to go there.” Hermione lifted her feet off the ground and turned her chair 90 degrees to meet Harry head on. She still couldn’t look in his direction, but at least she was facing him. She gnawed at her bottom lip as her eyes slightly teared up.

  
  
“Hawthorne,” Harry repeated dumbly. Of course he knew what Hawthorne was. It was the exclusive boarding school nearby. The kids that went there all wore uniforms and smiled all the time and always got into the top colleges and universities in the country. Hermione would fit right in.

 

“I know! It’s sudden. I didn’t even think that they received my application in time, or that they’d admit me as a sophomore!” Hermione spoke quickly, seeming stricken at having to defend her actions to someone she never thought she would have to fight against. But here she was, living out a nightmare that she could never have imagined.

  
  
“So you didn’t tell me because you didn't think you’d get in?” Harry asked, heart hammering. Hermione’s braid had fallen completely out by now, her curly hair puffing up around her face in agitation.

 

“Yeah,” Hermione responded, voice small. She had hunched in on herself, drawing her knees up and planting her feet on the chair so she formed a small ball. She hugged her knees as tightly as she normally hugged Harry. It wasn’t the same.

 

Harry’s voice got louder as he spoke until it reached a rushed yell,“And you didn't once think to yourself, ‘Hey, maybe I should tell my best friend about this possible life changing decision I have to make?” Nope? Nothing?”

 

When he was done with his tirade, he was breathing heavily, but no tears came. He was too shocked, too unready to face the possible effects that Hermione leaving would have. He would cry later. Harry clenched his fists, fingernails biting into his palms. He noticed the pain but ignored it. Harry was used to pain, had grown up with pain in his life the same way he had always grown up with the small scar on his forehead. But the pain in his chest, hollow and aching, was new and completely different than what a bruised rib felt like.

 

“Harry,” Hermione began. She lowered herself out of the chair and placed both feet on the floor, reaching out with one arm to rest a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry shrunk away from her touch and gave her a resentful look. She quickly grabbed her hand and held it tightly to her chest, as if Harry’s flinch had physically burned her.

 

“Look, I already told you why I did it and I’m sure I can think of other reasons when I’m not crying in the middle of school! I’m just sorry—really sorry. Okay?” She let out a soft sniffle and used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes.

 

“It’s really not. We tell each other everything!” Harry exclaimed. He threw his arms down to his sides and sent her a betrayed look. His eyes twitched from holding back the tears that desperately wanted to fall.

 

“We both know that isn’t true.” Now it was Harry’s turn to look away from her. She was right, Hermione was always right, even when she was wrong. And it was wrong of her to bring Harry’s home life up in this situation.

 

The bell ringing broke through the resulting silence like a knife. Two heads swiveled around to glare at the door as if it had personally offended them.

 

“I need to go to class,” Hermione said, packing up her things quickly and shoving them ungracefully into her bag.

 

“Nice to see you telling me something,” Harry snapped at her.

 

Hermione gave him one last tearful glance as she walked with her bag to class. As she stood up, her bag jostled the desk, sending the bracelet she made fell to the floor. Harry stared balefully at the bracelet on the floor. Shaking his head, he picked it up and clenched it in his fist. Harry felt guilty about what went on between him and Hermione, but he was still angry.

 

She should have told him!

 

He rubbed the bracelet between his fingers, carefully avoiding the red crescent shaped marks on his palm, before angrily throwing it into the bottom of his backpack. Packing up the rest of his things, Harry rushed off to his next class.

 

* * *

 

Harry settled down into the chair of his history classroom, dropping his bag onto the ground next to him. He slumped into his seat and pulled out his notebook and a pen and started tapping the back onto the paper. The history teacher for his class this year was Mrs. Bagshot, an old woman with more wrinkles than sense, and a memory like an elephant. She often lectured with a monotone, sending students to sleep with every word spoken. Most students tended to not pay attention to the lesson because of the soporific effect of her voice, but Harry wasn’t like most students. He diligently took notes because he couldn’t afford a letter home about any bad behavior in class.

 

Just as Harry put his pen on paper to start writing, a large shove to the back of his chair caused the pen to streak across the page, ruining whatever word he was about to write. Harry started to turn around but stopped once he saw the meaty shoulder of his cousin Dudley. Harry was too distracted by more pressing matters at the beginning of class to bother looking to see who saw around him, so he didn't notice Dudley choosing the seat behind him.

 

Harry distinctly didn't look at the face of his cousin, but he knew that he must be getting frustrated. The scratching of the chair grew louder as Dudley hooked his feet on the metal bars of Harry’s seat and pulled. Harry’s pen made another scribble on the page. He calmly placed it on the side of his notebook and grabbed another from his bag, then pulled his chair back all the way under the desk. Now armed with a pencil and eraser, Harry continued to dictate Mrs. Bagshot’s words. Dudley grabbed the back of Harry’s chair again and pulled once more, but Harry remained unfazed. His face remained carefully blank, but inside he was fuming. He was already in a bad mood from his fight with Hermione, their first ever real fight, may he add, and he didn't want to deal with Dudley’s shenanigans that day.

 

He pulled the sides of his large flannel to cover more of his body, reminded of the time when Dudley poured paint over his body. Shivering in disgust at the memory of paint squelching under his fingers, Harry twirled his pencil around in his fingers as Dudley continued to attempt to move Harry’s chair around. When Harry still gave no outward, response, Dudley upped his game. He skipped the step of kicking Harry’s bare back that was offered by the small area of space beneath the backrest of the metal chair, and instead went straight to throwing wads of paper at his head.

 

Harry could ignore the first wad of paper thrown at his head. There were surely more that had merely missed their target, but the first was fine. The second one was, too. They really were. He tried to distract himself by thinking of the lesson, but the subject was too boring. The third spiked Harry’s annoyance, causing him to turn around in his chair and violently whisper at his cousin.

 

“Would you knock it off?” It would be these words that were Harry’s undoing. Harry always had a temper on him and usually practiced impeccable patience, but he was still emotional from the fight he had with Hermione. And Dudley was going to take advantage of his lapse in judgment.

 

After this, Dudley decided he should make them bigger and heavier, sticking bits of eraser in the middle and using multiple sheets of looseleaf. Piers had joined in too, making spitballs and flinging them in Harry’s direction. They knocked into the back of his head, jostling his glasses, but Harry remained still. Harry’s temper was growing short with Dudley’s antics. In his mind, he knew that he shouldn’t engage, so he pressed his fingernails into the crescent mark formations on his palms, hoping that maybe pain would distract him. It didn't.

 

He started thinking of the one thing that usually calmed him: Hermione. But he and Hermione were mad at each other because Hermione was leaving. And if Hermione left, then there would be no way for Harry to get food, or have any normal human interactions besides the occasional hello with other students in the hall. HIs calming thoughts were turning out to have the opposite effect. Now anxious and frustrated, Harry turned around one more with a glare on his face and opened his mouth, only to have a spitball land directly onto his face. Harry’s face grew blank with rage as he wiped the spitball off of his face, shaking it off of his hand and onto the floor. The anger he normally kept so tightly contained inside of him erupted. He stood up and started shouting, no longer caring about the consequences.

 

“Oh my gosh, I have had it with you! You are the most annoying assholes I have ever met in my entire life! I can’t believe that we are related! And I can’t believe that you even _have_ friends! I have spent _entire years_ of my life just keeping quiet but I am done! You need to stop shitting on me and making my life miserable! It’s not my fault that you’re incompetent and a failure in all of your classes! It’s not my fault that you look like a beached whale! So stop shitting on me and kicking my chair and throwing fucking spitballs at me like I’m a doll! I’m not!” At this point, Harry was breathing heavily and the entire class was staring at him. It was an uncharacteristic move from the boy who liked to be as unassuming as possible, but everyone had a breaking point.

 

Now, Mrs. Bagshot was old and occasionally forgetful. On this day, she had forgotten to place her glasses on her face, so she never saw the paper balls being thrown. The moving of chairs was normal background noise so that was ignored with the gum chewing and occasional sniffles. But shouting, specifically one student at another, was definitely Not Allowed. She pushed her finger on her nose, presumably to push her glasses up so she could see what was going on. When she realized that she wasn’t wearing them, she blindly felt around her desk before embarrassingly remembering that they were hanging on a gaudy beaded necklace around her neck. Now being able to see that Harry was the one who was shouting, she sent the offending student to the principal for disruption and assigned him a detention. Dudley and one of his friends were snickering with pride that they had finally got a reaction out of their favorite victim.

 

Harry paled when he realized that his guardians would be called and notified about what had happened. Specifically, Vernon would be called.

 

Harry trudged to the principal’s office, pink slip crumpled in his hand. The few students loitering in the halls not reacting to the sight of another student. Harry’s face reddened when he thought of how Hermione would react. She’d probably tell him to stop being so emotional, as it always led to him having problems. He thought again to him yelling at Hermione and felt guilty as it was another example of him being emotional had gotten him into trouble.

 

Harry moved to talk to the receptionist in the office and told her that he was here because he got a pink slip. She sucked on a lollipop in her mouth, which matched the red of her lipstick. Harry waited for a response but only got a loud smack as she sucked the lollipop out of her mouth.

 

“Sit in the seat while I ring him. I am also required to notify your parents of this event. Can you give me a phone number to reach them?” Harry did. He gave them the home phone, hoping that Petunia picked up. He would find out soon.

 

Coach Kettleburn was walking past the office and did a double take at the sight of Harry sitting dejectedly. Harry made eye contact for a quick second before looking away, embarrassed to be caught in the position. Coach walked in, heading straight for Harry.

 

“Kid, what happened? Are you sick again?” He asked, worry clear in his voice. His brows furrowed as he scanned Harry for any injuries, before looking back at his face when he found none.

 

“I, uh, got a pink slip,” Harry confessed, eyes on the ground and cheeks burning in shame. The pattern on the carpet looked very interesting at that moment and was a much better view than the shrewd and searching eyes of the coach.

 

“For what? You start a fight?” Coach Kettleburn spoke quickly when asking the second question. “You can get kicked off the team if you got in a fight. I need you!”

  
  
“No, no. Not a fight. It was for ‘causing a disruption in class,’” Harry quoted, reading the cursive scrawled on the note.

 

“What kind of disruption?” asked Coach, reaching out for the slip. Harry handed it to him and let him read it.

 

“‘Directed at Dudley Dursley,’ that’s your cousin, right?” Harry nodded again. A look of annoyance passed over Coach’s face before he declared “I’m guessing he provoked it? He’s always been a bully, that one. I’ll talk to the principal before and see if I can convince him. It’s gonna be fine, kid. Don’t sweat.” With that, Coach Kettleburn walked straight into Principal Dippet’s office.

 

Harry sagged back into the uncomfortable chair once his coach was gone from view. He began to crumple and then uncrumple the pink slip, mentally preparing himself for his impending doom. As he was debating whatever reaction that Vernon would inevitable had, he missed Hermione walking by the main office. She, however, saw him as she walked right up to him with all the confidence of a freshman on their first day of school.

 

“Harry?” Her voice was quiet and questioning as she fiddled with the bottom button of her shirt. Harry’s body reflexively relaxed at the sound of her voice before his brain realized that he was mad at her. But he wasn’t anymore, not really. “Hey, ‘Mione,” Harry replied with a small nod of acknowledgment.

 

“I heard you got into a fight with Dudley,” she started, looking earnestly at him. Harry curled into himself, embarrassed once again. He was not having a good track record as he sat in that chair.

 

“The rumor mill is already at work, then?” Harry tried to joke, giving her an awkward smile in return.

 

“No, uh. I actually heard you yelling at him. Forgot you had a set of lungs on you.” Well, now Harry felt even worse.

 

“Oh,” responded Harry. He fiddled with the paper in his hands again, which brought Hermione’s attention straight toward it.

 

“Pink slip?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

 

“Yeah,” said Harry as he nodded his head.

 

“Detention?” Hermione asked carefully.

 

“Yeah,” said Harry once more, sounded even more dejected than before.

 

“I’m sorry.” She was wringing her hands together as if she was unsure what to do with them.

 

“Well, you already said that,” Harry said shortly, remembering her apology.

  
  
“Oh. I am though,” Hermione reminded him.

 

“I know that too. I’m sorry for blowing up at you.” Harry’s head bowed and Hermione could see the flush that enveloped the back of his neck.

 

“And I’m extra sorry about bringing up the Dursleys. I know I shouldn’t bring them up.” Hermione’s voice grew hushed as she spoke the last sentence, not wanting to be overheard by any unwanted parties.

 

“Yeah, it was a low blow. But you weren’t wrong.” Harry looked at her and gave her a wry smile that was sharp and spoke of too many secrets unspoken.

 

“Friends?” Hermione asked carefully, not trying to make herself sound too

 

“Always, ‘Mi.” Harry’s depreciating smile turned into something soft and sweet. It was a type of smile that rarely graced his face. Hermione reached out to hug Harry and he hugged her tightly back. He breathed in the scent of her hair stuff, not knowing if it was shampoo or conditioner or something else, and was reminded of happy times.

 

“Please don’t forget me when you leave,” Harry breathed into her hair. Harry decided it smelled like vanilla and something sweet that reminded him of Petunia’s garden.

 

Harry was still embraced in Hermione’s arms when he saw the approaching figure of Vernon Dursley. An angry Vernon Dursley. Harry leaped away from her and gave her a warning look as she hurried to the side, eager to not get in Vernon’s way.

 

If they were at Number Four, Harry was sure that Vernon would have throttled him. But being in public only slowed the inevitable. He took a large step directly into Harry’s personal space, his mustache quivering as Vernon clenched and unclenched his jaw. Harry stood ramrod straight and placed his hands behind his back at Vernon’s sign of aggression.

 

“Boy,” Vernon said, eyes blazing murderously. He reached up to grab Harry’s shoulder dangerously close to his throat. Harry was sure that Vernon had a few more choice words for him at that moment, but was interrupted by Principal Dippet’s door opening. Coach Kettleburn walked out, a look of frustration on his face. He stopped walking and looked at the scene in front of him. Vernon aggressively holding a stony faced Harry, with Hermione looking horrified in the background. His eyes narrowed.

 

“Mr. Dursley! Good to see you again!” Coach Kettleburn’s voice startled Vernon, who immediately became the good-natured drill salesman that everyone but Harry knew him as. A fake smile was forced onto his face as he unclenched Harry’s shirt, carefully smoothing it back down.

 

“Ah, yes. Mr. Kettlepot. Very nice to see you again!”

  
  
“It’s Kettleburn, actually,” he responded with a cold smile, voice lacking any of his previous warmth. Veron stuttered at his gaffe before regaining his footing upon seeing Principal Dippet’s secretary walk out and call him in.

 

“My bad, Mr. Kettleburn,” Vernon said, expression brightening, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go talk with the principal about my nephew’s behavior today.” With that, he barged into the office.

 

“Potter, what was that?” Kettleburn asked slowly, concern clear in his voice.

 

“That’s my uncle, Coach. It’s rude to refer to him as ‘that,’” Harry joked, attempting to relieve some of the tension that had built up in the room. He still looked ready to bolt out the door, his fight or flight instincts choosing flight. Coach Kettleburn turned to the other witnesses in the room. The receptionist was on her phone, chatting away about some nonsense. Hermione, however, was staring at the two of them, face pale and stomach churning uncomfortably. She looked at Coach Kettleburn with fear in her eyes before remaining silent. Harry chose to speak up again.

 

“Do you have any good news for me, Coach?” Harry asked, once again trying to relieve tension or to change the subject. His body looked calm but the thoughts running through his mind were anything but.

 

Kettleburn looked even grimmer than before, responding with a “Sorry, kid. I tried my best but there is a strict policy. You’re still on the team because you didn't start a physical altercation, but you can’t play for a few days depending on what the official punishment is.”

 

Harry breathed a heavy sigh of relief that he was still a member of the team. Soccer had become one of the best parts of his life, and he would hate to not be able to play anymore.

 

Harry kicked the air in front of him dejectedly. “Okay, thanks for trying.” Hermione gave him a sympathetic look before hearing the door open again.

 

“Vernon, I want to thank you again for the bourbon! I’ve always preferred it to scotch and it’s nice seeing a man who appreciates it. As always, it was a pleasure meeting with you, despite the-” Principal Dippet paused for a moment before glancing at Harry,” _unfortunate_ circumstances.” He raised his hand for a handshake. Vernon was in full business-mode, a shark-like smile painted onto his rotund face. He shook back with equal vigor then slapped Principal Dippet on the back, making the principal’s eyes narrow with distaste. He quickly schooled his features and the two said their goodbyes. Then, Vernon gave his full attention to his nephew.

 

“Boy,” Vernon seethed. Harry gulped in response. Vernon lumbered over to Harry and grabbed him by the shoulder with such force that the younger boy almost doubled over. He distinctly did not wince from how hard his uncle was holding him. Vernon glanced over to Hermione and Kettleburn with fury in his eyes.

 

“We’re leaving.” And with that, they did. Vernon manhandled Harry out of the office and into the hallway, leaving a concerned Coach Kettleburn and Hermione behind. Neither had a chance to say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“What on earth was that?” Kettleburn asked, turning to Hermione. His voice was edged with tension and he physically looked ready to fight someone, specifically one Mr. Vernon Dursley.

 

Hermione didn't know what to say. Should she tell this teacher who might be able to help her friend, or should she keep Harry’s secret for another day? Thinking back to another time, with another teacher, Hermione made her choice. Telling Mr. Lupin hadn’t done anything, it just made him leave. Hermione’s lips tightened in resolve, having made her choice. Coach Kettleburn studied her face and nodded, “I see.” He looked grimly determined as he left.

 

Hermione was standing alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Here’s the aftermath of Hermione’s declaration. I wasn't planning on Coach Kettleburn having so much screentime, he just appears. On a side note, his character is inspired by Coach Finstock from Teen Wolf but has become his own person. Also, I have gotten into the habit of writing a chapter and then breaking it into different parts because it gets too long. I didn't realize how much I’ve been writing like I thought that they would be farther along in the plot by now. But I like the pace I’ve been going so it’s gonna just keep happening.
> 
> I want to say that my interpretation of Harry is a combination of two pictures: the one where he is daydreaming about both Cho and Cedric and riding a broom together (by jam-art on tumblr), as well as the one of the Golden Trio being super awkward together in the 90s (drawn by sadfishkid on tumblr). They’re amazing!!! If I’m wrong about the artists, let me know so I can fix it!
> 
> Shoutout to ughpotter for commenting on every chapter! Makes me excited to write!! A million thanks to my friend dylanpidge for betaing this chapter and helping me think everything through! Check out her stuff!
> 
> Comment your thoughts! I love seeing comments on my work. It makes me feel loved. I wasn’t going to post until later in the week but I’m getting my orgo test back tomorrow and want some good vibes before then. So please let me know!!!
> 
> Subscribe if you wanna see what happens next!


	8. I'm In Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: I wrote a decently graphic description of abuse and the aftermath in the beginning of this, so please be aware. 
> 
> I have marked it between the three asterisks. I bolded the paragraph where it starts ("He stripped himself..."), as well as the paragraph where it ends ("Time slipped by...)

 

The boy walked to the door of Number Four feeling as if he was on death row, marching his final steps. Normally he could find humor in the idea of the Dursleys being his jailers, but Vernon’s eyes had been shooting daggers at him the whole drive back through the rearview mirror. He was having trouble finding any humor in the situation. Resigned to his fate, his shoes still felt like lead as he trudged inside.

 

As soon as he stepped inside, Vernon flung the door closed with a loud slam. He immediately grabbed his nephew and shoved him against the wall. “You little freak!”

 

“You think that you can yell at _my_ son? And get a detention? With no repercussions?!” With every word, Vernon squeezed a bit tighter on the boy’s neck, allowing him to only take in short, shallow breaths. “I’ll have to teach you a lesson then.”

 

His words were frigid and angry. Instead of a burning anger, Vernon was cold and controlled. The boy feared his uncle much more in this state and knew instinctively that things were about to get very, _very_ bad.

 

“Get the belt.”

 

The boy complied.

 

*******

 

 **He** **stripped himself** of his shirt, revealing the pale skin of his back. He turned and placed his palms flat on the wall, resisting the urge to curl his fingers into fists and retaliate—to prevent the pain that was about to come. His hand remained on the wall. Feet planted firmly, he tensed in anticipation of the first blow.

 

The belt whipped forward like a lightning bolt.

 

It stung. _God_ , it stung, The first one always took the boy by surprise, no matter how much he tried to brace for it. Time after time again, he always expected it to be different. It never was.

 

Countless blows rained down upon his vulnerable back. He heard the crack of the belt as it swung through the air, he felt the painful heat erupt when the leather made contact. He could hear Vernon huffing in exertion.

 

“You’ll learn this time, you insolent freak!”

 

Another crack in the air. Pain. A huff, the shuffling of feet, a crack. More pain.

 

The boy was used to pain. He had been through this routine before; he knew all of the motions. But most of all, he knew it would soon be over once Vernon lost his energy. He could make it through this. He slipped away into his mind, far away from his current reality. Before he could take another deep breath, the phone rang. The belt stilled in Vernon’s hands. The second shrill ring of the phone caused him to look towards the kitchen. He gave the boy a cold glance before bounding off to answer it. The boy didn't dare move. He continued to breathe deeply, ignoring the pain in his back. Ignoring the searing pain that thickly coated his back. Ignoring his uncle on the phone, ignoring his uncle’s enraged yell. But he couldn’t ignore that. He was trained to listen to it, to take his uncle’s mood into consideration before every single move he made.

 

Vernon stomped back into the corridor, wringing the belt in his hand. His anger was hot again, burning through whatever cold, calculating plan he had in store. He flipped the belt around and raised it over his head.

 

“Dippet called me!”

 

 _Crack_.

 

The pain this time was sharper than before as the metal clasp bit into the skin of his back. The boy gave a visible flinch which only riled Vernon up more.

 

“Your joke of a coach filed a report! Against me!”

 

Two more cracks.

 

“He reported me for suspected abuse!”

 

Another.

 

The boy thought he might pass out, but he was terrified about what would happen then. He was breathing heavily now, tears silently escaping his eyes. They were warm.

 

“You can’t see him. You can’t talk to him. You can’t even _breathe_ near him.” He punctuated each shout with a series of fast blows, releasing all of his anger onto his nephew. The boy was shaking now, knees locked in place to prevent him from falling over. He was sure that blood was pouring down his back now, slowly dripping onto the fabric of his pants. The boy was thankful it wasn’t landing on the floor. He was always expected to clean everything up after these sessions, no matter how much his body protested. His thoughts changed when he heard his uncle speak again.

 

“That means no. More. Soccer.” The boy felt his heart drop in response to these words. His knees unlocked and he fell to the floor, giving Vernon more access to his body than before. He shut down, mind not absorbing the words his uncle just said. Vernon had dropped the belt and started kicking the boy while he was down, aggravating the wounds and making new ones. The boy didn't bother blocking the blows but had enough sense to block his head.

 

*******

 

 **Time** **slipped by** as he squeezed his eyes shut, mentally willing himself away from Number Four. He wished he was anywhere but there.

 

_“Wanna play a game?” Hermione was sitting at the table on the elementary school playground, a book abandoned beside her. The other fifth graders were screaming in happiness as they swung higher and higher beside them. Like the kids on the swings, Hermione was swinging her legs back and forth beneath the table, equally excited but for a different reason._

 

_“Sure?” Harry responded, confused. He had only just befriended the strange girl with no other friends, but she couldn’t be swayed by the presence of his cousin and didn't have anyone else to play with. He couldn’t see the harm in playing a new game with her._

 

_“Great! I used to play this all the time with my mom and dad when we were in the car. It’s called Anywhere but Here!”_

 

_“How do you play?” Harry started to get excited. He had never played any real games before. Only Harry Hunting with Dudley, which wasn’t very fun at all._

 

_“Well, you have to fantasize yourself anywhere but here! I’ll start.” She looked thoughtfully at the closed book on the table before a smile settled on her face._

 

_“If I was anywhere but here, I’d be in the English countryside somewhere with a handsome heir waiting to sweep me off of my feet and write me poetry! And he’d play me piano! And gift me a library. It would be the biggest library ever.”_

  
_  
“Well that sounds nice,” Harry responded, unsure where to go from there. He wasn’t sure what the book she was reading involved but that sounded like a lot for one person to have to do._

 

_“What about you, Harry?” she inquired. She propped her elbows up on the table and gazed at him. Her smile was bright. Harry wasn’t quite sure how to respond in a way that made him sound like a loser. But he was already a loser, and so was she, so he didn't think he had that much to lose by answering honestly._

 

_“I think I would want to be with my parents. My mom would make pancakes for breakfast,” Harry started slow and unsure but gained confidence as Hermione didn't interrupt him. “-and I wouldn’t even have to make them. My dad would help her so she wouldn’t burn the bacon and I would set the table and we would drink as much orange juice as we could. It would just be the three of us in the house and we would have a cat. He would be orange and fat and like to laze around in the sun.”_

 

_Harry was gazing wistfully into the air by the time he finished. When he stopped speaking, Hermione jumped up and gave him a super tight hug. Harry had never felt someone hug him before, but he slowly wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. It was exactly what he hoped a hug felt like: warm and comforting. He noted that her hair smelled like vanilla when some of it went up his nose. He sneezed. Instead of being disgusted, he was rewarded with laughter. She let go moved to brush her hair to her back, tucking the front pieces behind her ears._

 

_“You can come over to my house this weekend! My mom makes the best pancakes in the entire world! And she lets you eat the extra chocolate chips even though it isn’t dessert!” Hermione was giddy at the thought of bringing a friend over for the first time. Harry didn't know what to say._

 

_As if reading his thoughts, Hermione blurted out “Just say you’ll come! It’s my birthday soon! I’ll be 11 and you have to come for my party!!” Harry nodded vigorously, accepting the offer before it could be taken away. He was so excited!_

 

The boy woke up aching all over. He was… somewhere. Head still dazed from the beating, he blinked as he took in his surroundings. The boy squinted and took a deep breath. The air was stale and had the bitter aftertaste from the cleaning supplies. Right. He was in the cupboard under the stairs.

 

At sixteen, he was a lot larger than he was than when he was six. The cupboard felt cramped and claustrophobic. He moved around, trying to situate himself in the tiny room he had once known so well. His wriggling around pulled at the cuts on his back and aggravated his injuries. His shirt, probably thrown into the cupboard before he was, slowly peeled off of where it was stuck painfully onto his back. Deciding to just rip it off, he let out a muffled cry of pain and a large flinch. His movements caused a shelf on the far wall to topple over. A myriad of different cleaning supplies landed on him, which made the dull aching pain flare up. He felt nothing broken, thank god, but wished that he could get out of there.

 

He heard footsteps outside of his door and then stilled, trying to not make any noise. The slat on the top of the door opened and the boy saw the cool eyes of his aunt staring down at him from in between the bars. The slat was closed swiftly before the boy heard the bolt on the outside unlock, allowing his aunt to open the door. She looked distinctly unimpressed.

 

“First you make Vernon leave work to pick you up from school, then you leave a mess on the floor? Is this how you repay our kindness, you ungrateful brat! We have housed you, fed you, clothed you! You could be in the foster system, you know. Bumping around from family to family once they discovered how awful you are.”

 

She reached into the cupboard and grabbed him by his hair. Her long fingernails gouged small lines into the skin of his scalp. The boy was dragged into the empty hallway and dumped unceremoniously onto the wood floor. He flopped onto his side, breathing heavily from the pain and the sudden reappearance of fresh air. A small speck of dried blood was visible on the beige of the wall. He saw the sun settling onto the couch in the living room, but whether that meant it was the same day or not was still unknown to him.

 

“Go clean up your mess,” she sneered at him before heading up the stairs. The boy looked into the cupboard and saw that his gray shirt was stained and ruined. He could never wear it again.

 

“I don’t hear you moving!” Petunia’s voice was shrill as she screamed at him from the top of the stairs.

 

The boy’s brain finally kicked in and he pulled himself up and wobbled with shaky legs back to the cupboard. He placed the shelf back on the wall and put everything back in its place. Grabbing the necessary supplies, he made it back to where Vernon had delivered his punishment and got to work. He may not have known the time or the day, but he did know that he was treading on thin ice. He ignored whatever pain signals his body was telling him and kneeled, gritting his teeth. He got to work.

 

* * *

 

Now locked in his room, the boy examined the rest of his body. He couldn’t see it, but he was sure that he had reopened the cuts stretching from his shoulders to his hips. With every slight move he made, the welts on his back burned with pain and he gave up trying to examine them.

 

There was no food or water given to him, and the boy’s mouth felt so dry that every breath he took felt as if they tore his throat open. The slot on the bottom of his door opened, the boy barely had enough energy to turn his head to watch a small water bottle and an opened can of soup slide in. He felt so weak. Even getting up from his bed and moving towards the door took energy he didn't think he had.

 

With clumsy hands, it took a few tries to get a strong enough grip to open the bottle of water. Completely forgetting to ration it, the boy gulped it down, cooling his dry throat. He licked his lips and looked towards the soup. It was a simple broth with vegetables, but it tasted like heaven. The supply of food didn't fill his starving stomach, but he was grateful for it all the same. His thin fingers gripped the can tightly. He wished for more, he wished he wasn’t locked away, he wished he was at school with Hermione.

 

 _Hermione_ , he thought desperately.

 

Now that he was thinking slightly clearer, he advanced over to his bag that was thrown onto the spot next to his desk. Rummaging through the backpack, the found the brown bagged lunch that Emma always packed for him. There was a badly drawn figure of a frog on the bottom, which made the boy smile.

 

_Harry,_

_Have a hoppy, hoppy day!_

 

_-Emma_

 

He carefully opened the bag, trying not to rip the note. His stomach grumbled in hunger but the boy had just eaten and needed to save the food so it could last. He hid it in the loose floorboard beneath his bed where he discovered a stray granola bar and a water bottle. Remembering that he had stored them there in preparation for the next time he would be locked away in his room, and there would always be a next time, the boy gently laid the bag inside before closing it shut.

 

Looking around his room, a flash of bright color stood out. It was the bracelet that Hermione had made him. He picked it up with shaking fingers. He ran his fingers over it reverently before tying it on. Hermione had always tied it around his fist and he wished that she were there to put it on. He struggled with it at first but ended up tying it with one end gripped in his teeth. The boy tugged at it to make sure that there was no chance that it could be ripped off of him.

 

Not at all sated, the boy carefully laid himself on his bed and drifted off to a restless sleep.

 

_“Tea, Harry?” Remus gestured to the electric kettle sitting in the corner by a bookcase with a nod of his head._

 

_“Sure,” Harry replied absently. He was staring at the shelf of books, each one old and weathered. What kind of journey had led them to Remus, to this room?_

 

_“Herbal, black, or green?” Remus asked. Harry looked up and examined the packets that Remus was holding._

 

_“The lemon one,” he said, eyeing the bright yellow packet. Remus hummed as he opened the tea and placed it in a mug. He immediately added a spoonful of honey, knowing that it was exactly how Harry liked it._

 

_Carefully, he carried two mugs of steaming liquid over to his desk in the center of the room. Without asking, Harry moved the papers that were scattered over the desk and cleared a spot. Lupin thanked him quietly and handed him his lemon tea. Harry grabbed it carefully, holding it with two hands and letting its warmth chase away any lingering winter chill. Remus held his hot chocolate as he watched his student take a sip. Knowing it was still too hot didn't deter Harry, but he still scrunched his nose and held out his tongue with a displeased whine to cool it off._

 

 _Remus let out a sharp breath. Harry looked up, confused. “What?”_   


 

_“Oh, nothing. You just reminded me of someone.” Harry shrugged it off and took another tentative sip._

 

The boy burned the next time he woke. It was sun scorching burning, the burn of chemicals on bare skin, the burn of eyes keeping tears at bay all rolled into one. He stiffly walked over to his window, trying to not make any extraneous movement. The bars made the moonlight shine through at odd angles. The boy managed to maneuver his fingers to open the latch and slide the window up the few inches it was able to. 

 

He kneeled, thankful to not have to stand, and let the cool air fill his lungs. It smelled like freshly mown grass and the faint sweet scent that he associated with the garden.

 

_Harry inhaled the sweetness of the hot chocolate in front of him. He took a sip and noted that it was hot, but not hot enough to scald his tongue._

 

_“You like it? It’s a specialty blend that I have to mail order from Paris. A friend introduced me to it when I was in high school. We were a bit younger than you are now. I’ve been buying it ever since.”_

 

_“It’s so good,” Harry said as he drank it greedily. He looked up, a thoughtful expression on his face._

 

_“Where’d you go to high school? You’ve mentioned it a few times before.”_

 

_“I actually went to Hawthorne Academy. On a scholarship, of course. My family didn't come from much money but I loved it. I met my best friends because of that school.” He smiled wistfully as he thought back to them._

 

_“Do you still talk to any of them? You’ve never mentioned any of their names.”_

 

_“No, none of us are in contact anymore. Sometimes, being an adult means letting go of things like that when your lives turn out differently. But I think about them a lot, wonder what they could be doing if we still spoke.”_

 

_Remus’s smile turned sad, but no less fond. In his mind, Harry determined that he would never lose contact with any friends he would make. He didn't think he could ever let go of Hermione._

 

The boy woke up with the wood of the windowsill pressing into his face. The sun was shining into his left eye and he rapidly blinked to clear the sleep away. He shifted, trying to regain some feeling back into his lower legs.

 

His head spun and his stomach ached. The boy knew that the ache was from his stomach trying to digest itself. The sudden thought was unhelpful to his current situation. He reopened the secret floorboard and slowly ate the second half of the sandwich and took a few sips of his water. He eyed the prepackaged snack pack of oranges, debating if he should open it. His hunger outweighed his desire to ration it and he ate two of the orange slices. The sweet, sugary juice exploded on his tongue. Feeling slightly better, but knowing that he still needed more food, he longingly stored the rest, closing the plastic top of the oranged with a rubber band and carefully covering his hidey hole with the floorboard once more.

 

He made his way back to the window, wanting nothing more than to see the outside world. He heard Petunia hosting friends over downstairs, their voices echoing up and into his room. He knew better than to shout for help and then lost himself in their petty gossip. They spoke about Lucy, who had found out that her husband had cheated on her with an intern. They were interrupted when the doorbell rang.

 

“Do you know who it is? You’re looking particularly annoyed right there?”

 

“Ooohh, almost as annoyed as Lucy must be!” The other women cackled.

 

“No, it’s nobody. Probably girl scouts again. _God_ , I hate them. Never know when to take no for an answer.” Petunia’s voice was biting as she got up, judging by the sound of a chair scraping on the ground.

 

“How odd,” one of the women remarked.

 

There was a moment of silence as they presumably nodded their heads. From his door, the boy heard the hushed voice of his aunt at the front door as she made little girls cry. He snorted at the thought. News about how Nancy Sorlando was caught stealing makeup from the store proved to be more exciting than whatever Petunia was saying to the kids. Apparently, the most important story the women were gossiping about was about how Debby Vargas was divorcing her husband. The boy listened intently as the women sipped on mimosas.

 

“Have you heard about Debby Vargas went to the police and reported her husband?”

 

“Roland? What could he have possibly done? Was it embezzlement?”

 

“No, he was apparently hurting her and Nate. Dreadful thing, that.” The other women nodded in assessment. The boy heard his aunt speak up to voice her opinion.

 

“I would never allow a monster like that near my family. How dreadful! I’m just thankful that Vernon treats me and my Dudley right.” Petunia sounded appropriately disgusted as she spoke.

 

The boy wanted to scream out to them that she was as two faced as her husband. He wanted to walk down there and show them how two-faced she and her husband really were. He wanted to take the bars off of his window and show them his bruises and his pain. But he was locked in, and making any noise was severely frowned upon. When the boy was in his room, he was supposed to not exist. The Dursleys enjoyed ignoring their problems.

 

He leaned back onto his heels, not knowing what to feel or think anymore. Absentmindedly, he started rubbing the bracelet on his wrist. He didn't feel any better. He had never felt so drained in his life. Mentally, physically, emotionally. Once again he was reminded of Hermione. His throat tightened, eyes stinging from keeping tears at bay. He looked out the window once more before turning his head and releasing a gusty sigh. The bones of his fist were white and visible through his skin as he clenched them and unclenched them.

 

The boy slowly made his way over to his bed, uncaring about how his muscles stretched and burned in protest. He needed to remember that he could still feel. He fell asleep thinking about feelings, about pain, and about Hermione.

 

* * *

 

The boy woke up in the dark, panting heavily. He was hungry, but he disregarded that. It was a common enough feeling for him. The boy was also thirsty, but he knew that thirst could also be ignored. Just not as well as hunger. He gave in to his cravings, cursing his body and his lack of control. It was a lack of control that got him into that mess. He ate ravenously.

 

It was a bad day.

 

There were a lot of bad days.

 

* * *

 

He was staring at the moon, so he didn't see how the moonlight reflected off of his skin. He was pale, even more so in the current lighting. He was slowly dragging the bracelet around his wrist in circles. Around and around. Over and over again.

 

He tugged at it quite roughly, both wishing that it would break so he could wish himself out of the room, but also thanking whatever deity that he still had it. That he was still friends with Hermione. That someone was out there who cared.

 

Harry twisted the bracelet, thinking of Hermione staring at the stars in the sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Brief description: Vernon attacks Harry and whips him with his belt. Principal Dippet called Vernon and told him that Coach Kettleburn filed a mandated reporter form against him, which enrages Vernon. Vernon then forbids Harry from interacting with Kettleburn any further and told Harry that he couldn't play soccer anymore.)
> 
>  
> 
> If you are a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan, you might catch the reference to the game that she and Willow played when I had Harry and Hermione play it. Some of my slang has also been inspired from a Buffy lexicon because its America in the late 90s. Love it so much. 
> 
> I won’t be posting the next chapter for a week or two because I’m taking my final tomorrow (send me good vibes!) and then im moving into my summer dorm and starting my job.
> 
> A big thank you to my friend dylanpidge for betaing this chapter and helping me think everything through! She helped with the chapter title, which comes from the Sia song of the same name. 
> 
> Comment your thoughts! Do you like the flashback scene(s)? More or less? I’m also starting to write oneshots for this ‘verse so expect to see those come out soon also. 
> 
> Some of the Lupin flashbacks were inspired by a HP tumblr post by nerdhades. 
> 
> Follow if you wanna see what happens next for Harry!


	9. Thunder and Lightning

**** It was a perfectly dreadful Monday morning when Petunia sent Harry off to the bus stop. The sky was filled with ominous dark clouds that looked heavy with rain and the promise of thunder. The muggy heat of the end of summer was making its presence known as everyone sweated through their clothes. It wasn’t cool enough for sweaters, which were usually baggy enough on his frame to burrow into. Harry rolled up his sleeves and ran a hand through his hair which had started to cling to his forehead with sweat. 

 

By the time the bus arrived, Harry went to his customary spot at the back of the group and waited for everyone else to board. Walking onto the bus was not refreshing. It was hotter than the air outside, but it didn't have a welcoming breeze. Instead, the  _ refreshing _ smell of sweaty teenagers filled the air.

 

Harry had seen Hermione’s face from the window of the bus, but it was blurry from the condensation on the glass. He sat down in his spot next to her and steeled himself for a tight hug that seemed inevitable. Hermione was more perceptive than Harry gave her credit for. Or maybe he was getting worse at hiding. Either or both could be the truth, but Harry would never know. Hermione’s hug was less intense than normal but he could still feel the love in it. Given the heat outside, it was a breath of fresh air. 

 

Hermione’s eyes were wide. “It’s been a week!”

 

Harry solemnly nodded. It had been a  _ very _ long week. He was glad to be back. Back into a routine, back to school, back with Hermione.

 

“Has it?” Harry said offhandedly. He curled one side of his lips up in a mockery of a smile.

 

“Yes!” She nudged his side. “I kept bringing you lunch, ‘cause I never knew when you’d be back. But here you are!” She gave a little laugh and relaxed into the seat behind her. 

 

“Here I am.” 

 

“What happened?”   


  
Harry looked out to the aisle and with a shrug said, “I had the flu.”   


  
Hermione looked at his cheeks, which seemed more hollow than the last time she saw him. “Again?” Her tone was dry. Her eyes betrayed her bone-deep worry.

 

He gave her a fake smile. “Of course.” 

 

They both knew the truth. 

 

Neither his words nor the fading green-yellow marks on his arm reassured her. He saw her eyeing them and then looked her in the eyes before rolling down his too long sleeves back down. They didn't’ talk about it. Hermione bit her lips and leaned back into the seat.

 

“I wish you wouldn’t get the flu as much.” She fiddled with her hands as if she felt awkward for bringing up Harry’s supposed illness. But Harry knew what she was trying to say though.  _ I’m sorry your family hurts you _ .  _ I wish they would stop. I wish that I could help. _ Harry let out a forlorn sigh.

 

“Me too, ‘Mi,” Harry responded quietly as he copied her movement. He frowned and then moved his body forward. With a skinny hand, he reached behind him and grabbed the buckle of the seat belt attached to the bus. He glared at it before swinging it over the edge of the chair to swing helplessly. He sighed in satisfaction as he could sit unencumbered in the seat without the bulky piece digging into his backside. Hermione let out a snicker.

 

“I stopped by a bunch, with soup that Mom made for you. Your aunt always answered the door but she never let me in. After a while I guess she got annoyed and stopped coming to the door.”   


  
Harry chuckled. “That was you?” He looked her in her brown eyes and his affection for her grew.

 

Hermione was confused. “What was me?”   
  


“The doorbell. I thought it went off more than usual, but Aunt Petunia once left a garden party and said it was just the girl scouts. She said you couldn’t take a hint. I thought you were a ten year old girl trying to sell Petunia cookies.” Harry’s smile was bright.

 

“Yeah, it probably was me. I kept thinking about you, ya know.” A piece of hair flew in front of her face and she blew it away with an annoyed huff. 

 

Harry nodded his head in agreement. “Me too.”

 

“I, uh,” Harry started. He held up his hand and shook it a bit, showing off the bracelet Hermione had made. Hermione beamed when she recognized it.

 

“Your bracelet! Gosh, that seems like such a long time ago.” She reached for his arm and carefully examined it before flipping it around his wrist

 

“I know,” he said sheepishly. He never understood how one measly little knot could elude him, but he liked it whenever Hermione took the effort to tie it onto him, anchoring him to her once more.   
  
Hermione peered at the knot at the end of it closely. “How did you get it on? You’ve never been able to before.”

 

“I guess I had the right motivation,” Harry shrugged, both uncomfortable remembering exactly what his motivation was, but proud that he had finally managed to do it.

 

Hermione guessed at what the past week must have been like for her best friend and her heart ached. She hummed in response and kicked her legs back and forth. A bright flash and then a loud rumble of thunder appeared from outside, startling the both of them. Harry flinched.

 

“When do you leave?” Harry asked, keeping his tone casual. He remembered the fight that they had the week before.

 

“Next week…” Hermione replied, trailing off. Hermione rested her head against the cool glass of the window and let out a heavy sigh. 

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. I’ve been finishing up the work I have for classes here, but I honestly don’t think I really need to. Probably just need to feel some sort of completion before I leave, I guess”   


 

  
“And you probably started reading stuff for Hawthorne, too. Am I right?” Harry turned his head and cracked a smug smile.

 

“Surprise, you got me. Yeah, they sent a book list and the syllabi so I won’t be too far behind.”

 

“Ah, how’d I know?”

 

“Because you’re obviously psychic. Duh.” 

 

“Yep, that’s me. Call me, uh,-” Harry scrunched his face as he thought of a suitable name.

 

“The Physic?” Hermione suggested. Harry waved off her recommendation.

 

“Hermione, I appreciate the suggestion, but you aren’t good at naming things,” Harry countered. Hermione scoffed.

 

“I’d be called something more mysterious, like The Oracle. That sounds much better.” Hermione rolled her eyes.   


  
“You don’t have to put ‘the’ before every title, ‘Mione. Yours sounds like a superhero villain.”

 

Hermione started again, raising her fingers as she listed off reasons why she was correct. “My idea was clear, straight to the point, easy to write on a business card. If you were trying to sell your services-”

 

Harry interrupted her. “Hey, who said anything about selling stuff?”

 

Hermione smirked at him. “Me. Just now.” Hermione said, as if Harry was particularly slow.

 

“I’m not going to go out and be ‘The Psychic’ and telling fortunes for money! I’ll save my talents for important things, like predicting who wins the World Series.”

 

“So you’ll do what, exactly, as you predict the future in private? Play soccer professionally?” Hermione was joking, but Harry’s mood suddenly plummeted. Right, he thought. Soccer. He had almost forgotten. 

 

“I can’t play anymore.” The overhead light of the bus cast an eerie glow on his face, highlighting the shadows under his cheeks.    


 

  
“What? Why? You love soccer!” Hermione exclaimed as a frown settled on her face. 

 

“I just can’t,” Harry mumbled. He crossed his arms and let his shoulders drop.

 

“You can’t?” The bus suddenly made a sharp turn, knocking Hermione into Harry’s shoulders and they both almost fell out of the seat. He let out a hiss of pain and Hermione quickly righted herself in her seat.    
  


“I can’t! I’m not allowed! Vernon took me off the team.” Thunder echoed around the bus once more as Harry spoke, muffling his voice slightly but Hermione could hear him just fine.   
  


Hermione’s hair frizzed up in a way that had nothing to do with the humidity. “He can’t take you off the team! It’s a team! You were on it!”

 

“Don’t you think I already know that, ‘Mione! He said no, so it’s a no.” He gave her a mirthless smile and Hermione didn't know how to react. She twisted the bottom of her shirt in her fist.

 

“But can’t you-” Hermione tried, pleading with her best friend to try and keep doing something he loved. 

 

“No, I really can’t,” said Harry in a defeated voice. And he was defeated. He already accepted the fate bestowed upon him by Vernon. And while he should be angry, should fight back—he was just  _ so tired.  _

 

“Sorry,” Hermione replied after a moment of silence. Or, as silent as it could get on the bus.

 

“Yeah, me too.” Hermione tentatively leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder, and when he didn't shrug her off, she settled in. It had started to rain. The two of them watched as raindrops hit the window and splattered off of the bus.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Harry dialed his locker combination into the lock and opened the door with a groan. He slid his backpack off of his shoulders and onto the ground. Students passed by, laughing and talking. He was alone. Hermione had to go talk with a teacher about finishing up her work before she officially left, and Harry wondered to himself if this is what it felt like. To do perfectly ordinary things alone, when Hermione should be right there next to him. 

 

He finished putting the books from his morning classes away and then started gathering his books for the rest of the day. He reached down onto one knee to pull a stray piece of looseleaf out from the bottom of his locker when he was suddenly pushed over, the piece of paper he had just grabbed torn in half.

 

“Potty!” 

 

Of course it was Dudley. 

 

“Mom said you’re back in school today. I hope you kept up with my homework.” Harry heard sniggering behind him at Dudley’s statement. He guessed it was the usual suspects: Piers, Dennis, and Malcolm.  

 

Harry gritted his teeth and didn't look up or turn around to confirm his suspicions. “You never gave me anything, Dudley.” He moved so he was kneeling before placing a palm on the floor and pushed with his hand to stand upright again.   
  


“How forgetful of me. I want everything done by the end of today. You have a lot of catching up to do.” 

 

Dudley took a step forward, causing Harry to take a step back into the lockers to keep away from one of his tormentors. Harry felt the cold metal of the locker digging into this abused back, but he refused to react. 

 

Dudley smirked and Harry could smell the cinnamon gum he was always chewing, despite the school rule against it. He shoved an armful of papers and notebooks into Harry’s chest, causing Harry to let out a pained gasp. “Better hurry, Potty.” Harry refused to react, keeping his head down and his eyes focused on the papers clutched in his arms. 

 

Dennis spoke up, a leer etched onto his face. “Maybe you could get your pretty friend to help? I’m sure she does more than just get on her knees for you. After all, how much good will her brain do when she’s got a mouth like that.” Harry restrained himself from talking and instead took deep breaths. The last time he retaliated had not ended well for him.

 

Piers Polkiss sneered at Harry. “Or do you not do that for her? She’s so uptight and all. Maybe she just needs the right type of man to help her sort it all out.”  He made a lewd gesture with his hips and Harry saw red.

 

Like lightning, a bolt of protectiveness descended over Harry. He couldn’t resist the instinctual urge to defend Hermione, his family. She was his family in a way that the Dursleys would never be. Harry would always defend Hermione, even if it ended badly for him, which was a likely end to his outburst.

 

“Come off it. Hermione is better than you and all your friends combined. We all know you are going to graduate from here and nobody will remember or care about you. But you’re nothing. Hermione is going to Hawthorne Academy-- yes I see that look on your face,  _ that _ Hawthorne Academy-- and will be so much more successful in her life than even me. So stop talking about her like she is a piece of meat!” Harry was breathing harshly through his nose after his tirade and was ready to face the consequences. And they were swift.

 

Dudley threw a punch at Harry who dodged it and quickly dodged it, still embracing the papers in his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a hall monitor turn into the hallway that they were in. Refusing to get caught, Harry turned away from them and started walking away. He gave the hall monitor a polite smile which was returned, upon seeing a hardworking student with plenty of papers in hand. Her smile turned to a disapproving frown when she saw a group of boys loitering in the hallways. Thanking his good fortune, he continued walking, not turning around even when Piers shouted something at his back.

 

“So your friend is finally realizing how useless you are and is leaving you too?” Harry didn't bother with a response. He had none.

 

He went to their empty classroom, soon to be his empty classroom. Emphasis on the empty after Hermione left once and for all.

 

Harry started the work that Dudley had shoved at him in quiet, filling the room with sounds of graphite strokes on paper. The thunder outside didn't bother him anymore, simply adding to the ambiance of the room.

 

Hermione stopped by and they talk more about Hawthorne and all of the opportunities it offered. Harry’s mood darkened a bit when the school was mentioned. All Harry could imagine was Hermione there and happy… Without him. His mood worsened as he glanced at Dudley’s homework, unfinished on the desk. He would be stuck with the Dursleys for the rest of his life. His mind wondered how long it could possibly be. He was shaken out of his thoughts when Hermione’s happy voice filtered back to him.

 

“And there’s so many chances to network! Like, Governor Malfoy’s son goes there! I wonder if he’ll be as nice as his dad seems to be!” Hermione’s eyes lit up like every time she talked about something that interested her and she would talk with her hands, moving them with every word she spoke. It would be one of the things that Harry would miss most about her.

 

“I bet he’s a slimeball,” Harry said in a joking tone, but in his heart he wasn’t really kidding. Who knew with those politician types. Hermione threw a paper ball at his head, which Harry skillfully avoided.

 

Hermione spoke again, eyes filled with a teasing sparkle. “And Elora Zabini sends her son there!”

 

“She’s so hot,” Harry said, a dreamy look on his face.

 

Hermione let out a snort and gave Harry a teasing grin. “You’re such a teenage boy.” 

 

Harry’s face lit up in a blush that spread to the tips of his ears once he realized what he had just said. He gave Hermione a nervous smile. “Hey! I like her, uh, work.”

 

Hermione made sure to look distinctly unimpressed at Harry’s crush on the beautiful actress. “Name one of the movies that she is in!” 

 

“Wingflux!” Harry shouted out, remembering seeing the movie with Hermione one time. She cocked her head to one side, her hair falling over her shoulder and grudgingly nodded her head when she remembered the movie.

 

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes, “Oh alright, I guess that counts.” Harry raised his fists in celebration and sent her a smug smile before breaking out into an excited grin. It made his entire face look younger, highlighting his smile and his eyes instead of his thin features. 

 

“I’m pretty sure that Leon Johnson’s kids go there, too!” Harry said.

 

“Who?” Hermione’s head moved backward and she made a face as she tried to think about the name.

 

“Famous football player? Led his team in four Super Bowl wins? Also known as ‘Neon Leon’? Because of that one time…” He stopped trying to explain, knowing that Hermione really had no idea what he was talking about. He let out a huff.

 

“You’re such a teenage girl,” Harry repeated, throwing her earlier words back at him. Hermione laughed and something in Harry melted a little bit. He tried not to think about how much he would miss her laugh. And all her different kinds of laughs, too. Her giggle that made its first appearance with the girl’s crush on Mr. Lockhart, and her silent snickers whenever Harry said something disparaging after she realized that Lockhart was a fake. Her snort when she read something funny in the newspaper comics. Her loud banshee laugh when Harry tickled her sides. Harry would miss all of them immensely.

 

Talking about Hawthorne Academy and all of the famous children and rich heirs that went there made Harry uneasy. He was happy for Hermione, as this was an opportunity that she deserved. She deserved the world and more, in Harry’s opinion. The school’s alumni network was bound to help any graduate get into any college or field of their choice. It was a dream come true. Except Harry couldn’t dream about his life without Hermione there. He hoped she wouldn’t forget him.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Harry walked to the gym during his free period to talk with Coach Kettleburn. His sleeves were down, he had already checked. The doors in the gym are open, revealing the rain coming down in sheets outside. Flashes of lightning illuminated the darkness outside, followed by their obligatory rumbles of thunder. It seemed peaceful, in a way, Harry thought. He started moving towards the coach’s office door, ignoring the anxiety he felt about interacting with his coach.

 

Vernon had forbidden him from talking to the man, but Harry had to tell him that he was off the team. After everything that Kettleburn had done for him, it was the courteous, _ normal _ thing to do.

 

Harry saw Coach Kettleburn sitting in an orange padded chair and took in the rest of the office. Everything was orange, a testament to Smeltings’ school colors. Harry rapped on the side of the open door and greeted him. “Hey, Coach.”

 

Coach Kettleburn looked up and knocked his head to the side to invite Harry in.

 

Kettleburn looked Harry up and down slowly before asking, “Where’ve you been, kid?” 

 

Harry responded with the same answer that he gave Hermione. “I had the flu, Coach.” He rubbed his nose and gave a sniffle. It was a convincing story in Harry’s opinion, given how often he told people he had been sick. The last time he was actually visibly sick helped lend credence to his tales.

 

Kettleburn’s grizzled appearance appeared soft, if Harry could even describe it as that.  “I hope you’re feeling better, kid. You got a doctors note?” 

 

“Huh?” Harry was startled. Asking about a doctors note was something that Harry was not expecting. Nobody had ever asked for one before, always taking his excuses at face value. According to the rumor mill that the Dursleys had spread around town, Harry was a sickly child who was always getting into fights and into trouble.   
  


“The school rules are that you can’t have more than three unexcused absences or else you can’t play on a team.” Kettleburn stood up from his chair and walked to a filing cabinet, where he lifted up a thick, bound notebook. The top read ‘Stonewall High School Student Handbook’ with a large, badly drawn cartoon of a coyote. Harry made a face.

 

“You don’t like the drawing? I take it that you’ve never seen it before. This is the student handbook.” Kettleburn tapped the front of the book, poking the coyote in the face. “The rules are in here.”   
  


“Yeah, I have never seen that before. And I don’t have a note.” Harry tried to stay emotionless throughout the conversation but it was  _ hard _ . He would rather face down Dudley’s gang with his hands tied behind his back than take himself off the team.    
  


“Well, I’m sure that you could get one if the—” he glanced at Harry from the corner of his eye, “flu was bad enough that you were gone for a week.” 

 

Kettleburn didn’t seem convinced that Harry truly had the flu. Harry gulped once before trying to school his expression again. Once he knew his voice wouldn’t waver, Harry spoke up.

 

“No, I don’t think that would work.” His words were slow but unaffected. To Harry, they sounded perfectly normal. To Kettleburn, he sounded robotic with the lack of emotion. For a boy who was normally so emotional and excited, the lines sounded too rehearsed to be natural.

 

Kettleburn looked torn, almost like he wanted to bend the rules just for Harry’s sake. A lump formed in the boy’s throat at the thought. 

 

Finally, the man spoke with reluctance in his voice, “Kid, I’m sorry but you can’t play without one.”

 

And Kettleburn really did look sorry. It wasn’t the fake sort of emotion that countless teachers had given him in the past. Instead, Kettleburn’s eyes stared sadly at Harry and he looked like he wanted to reach out and give Harry a hug. Harry unconsciously stepped back. He crossed his arms in front of him and gave Kettleburn a plastic smile more suited for a doll than a person.   
  


“No, that’s fine. My uncle took me off the team, anyway.”

 

Kettleburn wasn’t staring at him now, he was staring at Harry’s arms, where yellow bruises could be seen peeking out from under his shirt. Harry cursed in his head before pulling down the fabric to his wrists. Kettleburn leveled him an unimpressed stare.

 

“Your uncle, huh.” Kettleburn’s expression turned sour at the mention of the man.  “Wanna talk about him?”

 

Harry gave a raspy shout of a laugh that was filled with little amusement. 

 

“No, he thinks you’ve done enough of that already.” Harry’s tone had grown a touch colder as he remembered that Kettleburn had filed a report that had made the past week even worse than it normally would have been for him. 

 

Kettleburn gave a gruff snort and looked at the boy across from him.

 

“No, kid. I really don’t think I have.”

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Sorry for the wait! Moving in was weird and I like my lab work and I will hopefully be getting paid soon, so that’s cool.
> 
> The football that I reference here is American football, hence the mention of the Super Bowl. Leon Johnson is also a fake character. I chose ‘Leon’ as Angelina Johnson’s dad’s name because it kinda sounds like lion. Also, ‘Wingflux,’ the movie that Elora Zabini is in, is fake. Thought I should clear that up.
> 
>  
> 
> Shoutout to dylanpidge for helping out with this chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> Personally, I think that I have gotten a lot better at dialogue the more I write so ty for sticking with me this far. ALSO THANK YOU to everyone who is commenting and subscribing! I love checking my email and it is one of you guys!!! Makes my entire week. And yes, we are getting pretty deep into the Harry whump chapters, but I keep saying it is going to get worse before it gets better. Next chapter includes what Harry’s life is like with Hermione gone and he finds that his temper and patience are worse off. I think we all need some Hermione in our lives, Harry most of all.
> 
>  
> 
> Check out my one shot for this 'verse called Wheels on the Bus! It's on my profile, and it's about how these two met without magic. I have a bunch more in the works, so stay tuned!
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - This is a non-magical high school AU that began as a plot bunny in my head many years ago. It has been sitting in my docs for a while now and I decided I may as well post it.  
> Thank you for reading! Please write a review about what you liked, didn't like, noticed that was interesting, etc.


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